


By the Grace of God

by Blurgle



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:02:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurgle/pseuds/Blurgle
Summary: Henry Tudor succeeds to the throne of England.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a substantial - very substantial - rewrite of the original By the Grace of God. Many changes but the same general idea.

_Henry VIII (3 May 1491 – 5 July 1557) was King of England from 21 April 1509 to his death. He was Lord, and later King, of Ireland and the first King of Newfoundland, and renounced the claim to the throne of France made by his predecessor Henry V. Henry VIII was the second monarch of the Tudor dynasty._

_Considered both in his time and by modern historians a steady and competent if somewhat dull set of hands at England’s tiller, Henry is perhaps best known for his stalwart support of the Roman Catholic Church in the face of the rise of Lutheranism and for the earliest wave of English colonization in the New World. His contemporaries considered Henry a prudent and intelligent king, a dedicated family man, and an upholder of the traditional rights of Church, lords, and commons. He is frequently criticized by historians for his hostility to religious reform but he receives praise for his deft handling of court faction, moderate fiscal policy, and decisive opposition to Pope Julius II’s attempt to absorb the Republic of Venice into the Papal States. Notable members of his court included the Dukes of Norfolk, Buckingham, and Somerset; the Marquesses of Exeter and Pembroke; the Earls of Devon and Shrewsbury; numerous prelates and clerics; the administrators Sir Thomas Cromwell and Sir Richard Riche; and the future Pope St. Pius IV, known to posterity as the ‘Sword of Christ’._

Wikipedia, “Henry VIII of England”  
Retrieved 28 December 2016

 

14 June 1490  
Sheen Palace

“Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spíritum rectum innova in visceribus meis. Ne proiícias me a fácie tua et spiritum sanctum…”

Margaret Beaufort knelt in the ancient chapel, her lips moving in prayer, her eyes lifted to the cross high above the altar. She’d prayed the Life of Jesus, had said a hundred Our Fathers, had repeated the penitential Psalms a dozen times. Hour after hour she’d prayed; hour after hour she’d begged God for mercy, begged the Blessed Virgin to intercede. Surely He would hear her prayers this time; surely He would stop the bleeding, stop her son’s child from slipping away like the others, finally forgive Margaret—

But this was not the time for self-recrimination, she told herself as she lowered her head and continued with the _Miserere_. “Libera me de sanguínibus, Deus. Deus salútis meae, et exsultábit lingua mea justítiam tuam. Dómine, lábia mea apéries…”

A gentle voice interrupted her. “Your Grace, I have news.”

She rose, hoping beyond hope – but one look at Father Urswick’s face answered her unspoken question with crushing finality. “Jesus protect Her Grace,” she said, making the sign of the cross. “When did it happen?”

“At five, madam. The Princess Cecily’s Grace has asked if you would attend on the Queen; she’s deeply distressed by her failure—”

 _Failure?!_ “You will not use that word to describe the Queen of England, Father,” she snapped, her grief transforming into white-hot rage. “My daughter-in-law has not failed; this is the Lord’s doing and you would be well advised to remember that.” And she swept past the fool without another word, gesturing to her ladies to follow.

The great east gallery was awash in sunlight that summer morning but even the warmth of the sun’s rays couldn’t begin to melt the ice forming around her heart, as her unconscionable outburst had been prompted not just by her confessor’s oafish phrasing but by the mountain of guilt weighing upon her soul. Of course the loss of the child was the will of God, she’d never deny that, but she also couldn’t turn a blind eye to why He had willed it. Perhaps men were fools, possibly they didn’t understand everything they should, but she had once been just as foolish – and God, she feared, would never forgive her.

Elizabeth’s maids of honour had risen early and were diligently storing away the work they’d put aside last night when their mistress was taken ill. Margaret had to avert her gaze: every tiny cap, every gown, every scrap of linen served to remind her that they’d lost not just an heir to the throne but a child of God who would be barred eternally from His holy presence. Perhaps the tiny unborn soul would find contentment of some sort in the _limbus puerorum_ but she couldn’t help but grieve that it would never know God’s love, never experience the joy of Heaven. If only it had lived long enough to take a single breath, to be baptized even if just by the midwife…

“Your Grace?”

She looked up to find Elizabeth’s sister Cecily waiting patiently to speak with her, the tensions of the last eight hours readily apparent in her little round face. “Thank you for sending Father Urswick to me, my dear,” she said. “How is the Queen?”

“The physicians say she will recover, madam, but the boy – he was well-formed, but…”

Margaret rested a gentle hand on the girl’s trembling shoulder; she had been with Elizabeth at the time and had seen far more than a young woman heavy with her first child should be forced to witness. “I only wish you’d been spared this. Is she alone now?”

“Lady Guildford is in attendance, madam. The midwife sent the rest of us out.”

“Of course. Has the King been notified?”

“I sent a messenger to Westminster at two, madam. I don’t know if – if he…” Her voice suddenly broke. “Forgive me, I—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Cecily,” she assured her. “You’ve been a tower of strength this morning and I am certain my son will be truly grateful.” She beckoned to the nearest lady-in-waiting. “Mistress Redyng, please see the Princess to her rooms and advise the Lord Chamberlain that the King’s Highness is presently expected at Sheen.”

“Straight away, madam. Shall I notify the Queen Dowager?”

Cecily’s face blanched. “Oh, no—”

“The King would prefer otherwise, Mistress Redyng,” Margaret interjected, giving Cecily a sympathetic smile before raising her voice to address the other ladies in attendance. “In fact, I would ask that none of you communicate this matter to either the Queen Dowager or her immediate family unless His Majesty gives you express permission to do so. The lady in question was, I remind you, not particularly supportive of the Queen after her last loss.” And that, she reflected, might be the greatest understatement she’d ever uttered.

Elizabeth’s bedcurtains were tightly closed against the morning sun, but even the thickly padded Venetian silk couldn’t block out the muffled sobs emanating from behind. “How is she, Joan?” she asked an anxious Lady Guildford as she pulled the door shut behind her.

“Devastated, Your Grace,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as Elizabeth let out another anguished cry. “I wish I could do something to relieve her pain.”

“As do I, but I fear only God can mend her heart. Go break your fast; I’ll send for you later.”

Once they were alone she parted the bedcurtains and perched on the side of the bed. “Daughter, is there anything I…”

Elizabeth looked up – and oh, the agony in those brilliant green eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“No, child,” she murmured, gathering her into a soft embrace. “Never think you must apologize for what you would have sacrificed your life to prevent.”

“But I—”

“It wasn’t your fault; you know that. It was God’s will and we must do our best to accept His decision.”

“Three boys, madam…” was all she could choke out before she dissolved into heaving sobs. “Three…oh Lord Jesus…”

“I know, I know…it’s all right, everything will be all right...”

But of course it wouldn’t.

She continued to rock the heartbroken young Queen as her tears subsided and she fell into a restless sleep – but what, she wondered, could heal Margaret’s own heart? Guilt was eating her alive; this was all her fault and she could think of no way to fix it. She had two grandchildren – weak little Arthur and baby Meg in her cradle – but Henry would never be safe on his throne until he and Elizabeth gave the realm a strong, healthy son.

_Or until Elizabeth did._

The girl suddenly shivered as if her soul were protesting the monstrosity that had just flitted through Margaret’s mind. Elizabeth was the most moral and honest of women, a faithful wife and a gracious lady who adored her husband above all but God; she would be justifiably furious at Margaret’s sinful imaginings. Adultery in a Queen was not just the most heinous of sins – one that could hardly be forgiven – but the vilest form of treason imaginable.

_If it’s discovered._

_Get thee hence!_

The door suddenly opened. “Lizzie, sweetheart?”

Margaret slipped her arm out from under the Queen’s shoulders, pulling the bedcurtains shut behind her. “She’s just fallen asleep,” she said to her son in a low voice. “May we speak outside?”

“Of course, Mother.”

They returned to the sitting room; King Henry dismissed Elizabeth’s ladies and turned back to her, his face lined with fear. “They told me she lost the boy. How is she? Did she lose much blood? Did she fall, did she suffer a bad loss at cards…”

“She’s as well as can be expected, Henry, and she did nothing to bring this on. This is naught but the Lord’s doing, I’m certain of it, and we must—”

His face suddenly flushed dark red. “Would you just shut up about God for once in your blasted life?”

She instinctively stepped back but he grasped her arm, dragging her so close that she could smell the ale on his breath; he’d never seemed more like his father than at that moment. “I don’t know what else you and God want from me!” he hissed. “Liz and I have both prayed until our knees are blistered, we’ve gone on pilgrimage after pilgrimage, we’ve bled the treasury dry with almsgiving, I’ve brought in doctors from across the realm and beyond and yet God keeps taking our sons! This is the third time – what else am I supposed to…” But before he could finish the sentence he released her and slumped back against the door, the very picture of abject shame. “Christ’s wounds, Mother,” he groaned, running a hand over his face. “I’m – I’m sorry. How could I have hurt you…”

“A man under great strain will often say and do things he doesn’t mean, my son,” she reassured him over the pounding of her heart. “I only ask you not to take it out on Elizabeth. You know she would have given her life to save the child. She did everything she should have; she followed your physicians’ orders to the letter and she’s spent so much time in bed it’s a miracle she remembers how to walk.”

“I know, Mother; I know all that. It’s just…” He pushed himself back to his feet, fending off her assistance with a wave of his hand. “My man in Paris has sent news of another pretender, this one claiming to be Prince Richard.”

“Elizabeth’s brother?”

Henry nodded. “He surfaced at the court of the Duchess of Burgundy last week. You know as well as I do what the Duchess is scheming at, and you also know the Usurper would never have let either of the princes live. But if Liz finds out…” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me that Woodville bitch isn’t at court.”

“She’s not here, Henry, and hasn’t been told.”

“Thank God for that,” he said. “I’d like to sit with Lizzie for a while but I have to leave soon; the Privy Council is meeting this afternoon to discuss our response to the news from Burgundy. I only pray to God we don’t end up at war again.”

She dropped her son a curtsey as he left her for Elizabeth’s side, guilt roaring back with the force of a winter gale as the door clicked shut behind him. After all she’d done to keep her son safe, after all the sins she’d committed, all her pride and folly, that the thrice-damned Duchess of Burgundy would choose this moment to dredge up some long-nosed child with a fine accent…

But she pulled herself up short; Prince Richard would have been sixteen years old had he lived. This pretender must be a man with aspirations of his own, aspirations that went well beyond the Duchess’s long-held dreams of seeing Henry’s head on a pike. This was no Lambert Simnel, no innocent child forced to dance a merry jig to his masters’ tune; this young man could pose a serious threat.

The air surrounding her suddenly seemed bitterly cold; she sent a page to fetch Lady Guildford and returned to her rooms. “Is there any news?” she asked her ladies after calling for her robe.

“The Duke of Bedford’s Grace has sent word that he intends to travel to Sheen tomorrow with Monsieur de Velville, madam, and begs an audience,” Lady Compton said. “From what I am led to understand, the Duchess is not in attendance on her lord husband.”

She breathed a sigh of relief at the news; Henry’s uncle Jasper Tudor was always welcome but they’d never keep the news from Elizabeth Woodville if his wife – the harpy’s sister – were to learn of it. “This might not be the best time – no, on second thought I would like to see Jasper. Send him a message advising him of the sad news so he’s prepared.” She held out her arms and let her ladies bundle her into her robe, but something Joan Compton had said puzzled her. “Did you say _Monsieur_ de Velville?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder. “You can’t mean young Roland, Jasper’s little boy?”

She smiled. “The very one, Your Grace, but he’s a boy no longer. He may be only fifteen but he’s said to be the finest young gentleman to come out of the West Country in years.”

 _Young gentleman!_ The last time she’d seen Roland he’d been a mere…but no, ‘mere’ wasn’t a word she’d use to describe any of Jasper’s by-blows. Tudor men bred exceedingly well; her first husband Edmund might have left her a young widow with an only son but Jasper and their younger brother David had sired at least twenty children between them, and the youngest brother Owen – well, he might have become a monk but that hadn’t prevented him from producing a fine brace of boys in his youth.

No, the fault in Henry and Elizabeth’s humours couldn’t be a Tudor defect, or even a Woodville one for that matter; as deeply as she loathed Elizabeth’s mother she couldn’t deny that the harpy’s sons would have grown up as healthy as Roland de Velville had they been given the chance. It was her blood, her line, her sins that kept strangling Elizabeth’s children in the womb, her sins that were forcing little Arthur to struggle against his frail body at every turn. It was her fault – and therefore her problem to solve.

She pulled her robe tightly around her and knelt at her prie-dieu. _Lord Jesus,_ she silently asked, _give me a sign. Tell me what I must do; lead me to an answer._

…and a vision of her brother-in-law Jasper came once again to her mind’s eye. He’d arrived at Pleasaunce last year ostensibly to view Henry’s plans for upgrading the house but in truth to show off his latest bastard, a lusty boy of ten months whose wail had all but peeled the paint off the nursery walls…

_Get thee hence, Satan!_

But the images wouldn’t stop. She saw Jasper and Roland; Jasper and Helen, who’d married one of Henry’s Welsh archers and died birthing a strapping son of her own; Jasper and Joan; Jasper and Michael; Jasper and Richard de Clare, who’d fallen at Bosworth protecting Henry; Jasper and Kitty, Jane, and Francis of the ear-piercing scream; Jasper and child after child after healthy child.

She made the sign of the cross and began to recite the Pater Noster, desperate to shake off the Devil’s malignant influence. Suborning treason and adultery was a mortal sin, one God would never forgive – but the visions continued to churn in her mind, repeating themselves even as she pleaded with God to cleanse her soul of such evil thoughts.

It suddenly struck her; could this actually be the sign she’d begged for? As the thought came she dismissed it…but by doing so, she had to ask herself, wasn’t she also dismissing the thousands of lives that would be lost should war break out again?

Perhaps there was simply too much at stake to worry about whether the notion was sinful or not. Could she look the farmers of Surrey or the burghers of London in the eye and tell them their children’s lives mattered less than a queen’s honour? Could she stand by and see rapacious noblemen tear the realm apart for the right to marry Meg and wear the crown matrimonial?

No, she could not. She could countenance many things but she’d die a thousand deaths before she’d let Meg’s infant maidenhead become a reward for violence and treason.

Jasper would agree in an instant, she knew; he’d do anything to protect his nephew’s throne, and (vide all those bastards) he’d never given much thought to the state of his soul. Elizabeth, on the other hand…if Margaret simply came out and put it to her bluntly she’d indeed be furious, so much so that might even go so far as to tell Henry. She’d have to be eased into it slowly, a far from impossible feat; for all her grace and honour Elizabeth of York was still the daughter of that Woodville harpy and as such could be led by the nose by anyone cunning enough to exploit her weaknesses. Play on her fear of further war, play on her loyalty to her father’s legacy, play on her love of Meg…if Margaret played her cards right, there could be a fine boy (and a Tudor boy at that) in the royal cradle within a year.

She lifted her eyes once again to the crucifix, wondering if God would forgive her for this. The cause of righteousness often required men and women to do ill to each other; the Sixth Commandment in particular been broken so often that she sometimes wondered if murder was indeed…

But that wasn’t true in the least, was it? She knew more than most that murder was and would always be the gravest of sins. Were it not, were it as commonplace as lechery and as easy to confess, she wouldn’t be in this position.

She closed her eyes and began the _Confiteor_ , praying once again for God to understand.


	2. The Toll of the Bells

21 April 1509  
Richmond Palace

 

The King’s Privy Chamber lay almost deserted that warm spring evening. No councillors waited by the door in hopes old King Henry would be sober enough to conduct business; no bishops stood clustered in dark corners, helpless in the face of their master’s drunken wrath. The only watcher in the vast room that night (other than the guards at the door) was a single priest standing near the bottom of the staircase leading to the gallery above, his sturdy frame half-hidden in the long shadows thrown by the dusty rays of the setting sun as he listened with one ear to the monkish prayers emanating from the Chapel Royal.

What were they praying for, Thomas Wolsey wondered: the King’s life, or his death?

He couldn’t blame them for choosing the latter. England had survived good kings and wastrels, fierce kings and cowards, brilliant kings and utter fools, but never before had it seen such a glaring disappointment as Henry Tudor the elder. He’d started his reign well enough, defeating the usurper Richard of Gloucester and marrying the eldest daughter of Edward IV in what would develop into a true love match; if that weren’t enough to reassure his subjects, he’d handily defeated every pretender and rebel who rose up against him, married his adored heir Arthur to a beautiful Spanish infanta, and amassed a fortune that, had it been managed well, would have guaranteed the financial health of his realm for generations.

But then God stepped in to collect his mother’s debt of sin. One by one the relentless scythe of holy justice mowed down King Henry’s uncles, his stepfather, his most trustworthy advisors, two of his younger children, his adored heir, and – in the cruellest cut of all – his beloved wife Elizabeth; blinded by pain and broken in heart and soul, the King had retreated into rapacity, rage, and strong drink. He’d bankrupted his subjects, imprisoned his councillors and relatives, and vilely abused everyone who dared survive his lady queen, but the brunt of his anger had fallen squarely on the shoulders of his only surviving son, Prince Henry. A tall and clumsy boy of seventeen summers, the prince had the grievous misfortune to resemble his grandmother Elizabeth Woodville both in fairness of face and strength of character; Wolsey didn’t know which the old king resented more. Prince Henry did have his faults (and grave ones they were) but he was the only Tudor heir left – and almost the only Yorkist one.

He slipped back into the shadows as grooms arrived to light the torches along the walls, not wishing to be spotted during his vigil lest he be accused of anticipating the king’s death. He didn’t want to give anyone the right impression, after all.

A movement of air shortly after the Compline bell alerted him to the arrival of one of the few friends Prince Henry had been allowed. “Master Compton, good evening,” he said before blinking in surprise as another man stepped out into the light. “And good evening to you, Master, although I’m surprised the guards let you in.”

Thomas More dipped his head politely. “Thank you, Father…”

“Thomas Wolsey, sir,” he supplied, “at your service.”

“Harry’s confessor!” More held out a hand. “Then well met. He’s had nothing but good to say of you in his letters—”

His _letters_? Since when was an exile from court allowed to correspond with a prince?

“—but it’s been five years; I doubt the guards would so much as recognize me. Has there been any news, Father?”

“None as of yet, Master More,” he said. “As far as I know the old King still lives. How is the mood in the city?”

He grinned. “Like Easter morning after Mass, with every mouth watering in anticipation of that first bite of ham.”

“Not every mouth, Tom,” Will Compton said. “The thieves and coin-clippers of the realm are licking their parched lips in fear as we speak and digging burrows in their courtyards to hide in.”

“It won’t be easy dragging them out either,” More remarked. “I only hope Harry has at least a few men around him he can trust.”

They both stared at him. “And why do you think he sent me to fetch you?” Compton asked, one eyebrow climbing into his hairline. “So he could catch a glimpse of your lovely face after all these years?”

Wolsey returned his gaze to the gallery, schooling his expression as the two men bantered; never, he thought, could he let on how close to the bullseye Compton’s arrow had hit.

He’d been Prince Henry’s confessor for just over a year and in that time he’d absolved him time and again of the sin of lust. It was a normal state of events for a boy that age, of course, except that Henry had steadfastly refused to admit exactly whom he’d been lusting after. Wolsey wasn’t blind, though; he’d seen his charge’s gaze trail where it might. The primary object of the Prince’s desires was tall, blond, and slim – but of course the boy’s looks weren’t the issue.

The revelation had come as a shock at first but on further reflection he considered it simply another nugget of information to sock away. No priest – no educated priest, he corrected himself – could be ignorant of the fact that some men were left cold by a raised bosom. Oh, the Church might consider the act itself a form of heresy, but the predilection? Perhaps he should write Rome and ask Pope Julius’s dearest male companion to send him the current opinions on the matter.

A door suddenly slammed above them; Compton and More broke off their conversation, their eyes following Wolsey’s upwards to where Prince Henry was entering the upper gallery in the presence of the two burly yeoman warders who never left him, not even in the confessional or the jakes. Protection from sin the intent surely was, but how many of those protectors had unwittingly danced their way through the young prince’s dreams?

Beside him he heard More gasp. “He’s grown so tall…”

“I take it you haven’t seen him recently?” Wolsey whispered.

He shook his head. “We exchange letters every week, of course—”

Of course.

“—but I haven’t seen him in person since he was twelve. I don’t know if I would have recognized him.”

But their voices must have been louder than they realized, as Henry stopped in his tracks and squinted down at them. “Is that you, Father Wolsey?”

“It is, Your Grace, with Master Compton.” And he coughed.

Fortunately the prince’s mind was sharp as his sight was short. “Oh, praise God,” he cried as he raced toward the staircase, but about one-third of the way down he stopped and turned back, addressing the guards following closely behind him. “If you would wait for me upstairs, please.”

The elder of the pair spoke. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but the King has ordered—”

Henry’s demeanour suddenly changed without warning, the mild-mannered boy replaced in an instant by the most resolute of men. “My father is dying, Robert,” he said in tones brooking no argument. “You and Richard may follow his orders and forfeit your position at his last breath, or you may follow mine and continue to serve your King in the years to come. Choose wisely.”

The guards shared a look and, coming to a wordless decision, bowed to the prince before returning upstairs.

Wolsey opened his mouth to welcome Henry but it appeared the young man only had eyes for More. “Tom!” he cried, enveloping the young lawyer in a crushing bear hug. “Thank you so much for coming! I know you took a terrible chance…”

“Not at all, Harry,” he said into the prince’s bony shoulder. “You know I’d risk my life for you.”

Henry released More only to grasp him by the arms. “Never say that; you have a beloved wife and children who depend upon you. How is young John? I’ve been praying for him day and night since your last letter.”

“Much better, thank you. I can only credit God’s goodness and your prayers for his recovery…”

Compton and Wolsey stepped aside, leaving them to their reunion. “I take it you’ve been acting as go-between with respect to this treasonous correspondence?” he asked Compton in a low voice.

A grin spread across his pockmarked face. “You have such a way with words, Father. For the record, the answer is yes.”

He returned the smile. “Good.”

Compton’s eyes widened but before he could respond Henry waved them over again. “I was just telling Tom that I’m going to need your help when…when this is all over. First, though,” and his gaze flickered back up to the gallery, “my lord father the King has asked to see me privately. I suspect he wishes to give me a few final words of discouragement, or perhaps he’ll tell me where Catalina is. We haven’t heard from her in, what, five years?”

“Five and a half, sir,” Compton said. “The Dowager Princess disappeared just after the King banished Tom. She obviously still lives; we pray for her every day. But otherwise…”

“We could ask Sir Edmund Dudley, sir, if the King refuses to speak,” More suggested. “The word in the city is that he and Sir Richard Empson were named her trustees in January.”

“They’re upstairs with my lord father and lady grandmother, along with the physicians and the archbishops,” Henry said, his thin lips pursing in disgust. “Father’s probably just going to tell me to look after Elizabeth and Mary as if I would otherwise leave my sisters to starve, but whatever it is I’d like the three of you to wait for me in my father’s study. I’ll let the guards know you have the right to be there – or will have the right by the time I see you again, which amounts to the same thing.”

They climbed the stairs, following the Prince to a door off to the right guarded by two sentries. “Piers, Mark,” he said as they bowed to him, “I’m afraid we must anticipate a change of governance in the immediate future. I therefore order you to allow my…my interim advisors,” and he gestured to them, “access to my lord father’s study so that they might assist me in preparations for a peaceful transition.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the senior guard replied without hesitation; doubtless they’d overheard Henry’s words to their colleagues and had no intention of making the same mistake. “Shall I advise the Sergeant Major, sir?”

“If you would, yes; tell Keyes that Father Thomas Wolsey, Master William Compton, and Master Thomas More are to be allowed full and free access to both the public and privy rooms of my lord father’s…of what will soon be my palaces, I dare say.”

The guard bowed again. “Very good, Your Grace.”

But Henry was suddenly a thousand miles away, lost in thought. “My palaces,” he said, as if he were trying out the words, “my realm, my subjects.” He turned to leave but stopped near the head of the stairs, looking back at them over his shoulder. “Also advise Keyes to extend the same freedom to Charles Brandon when he gets back from the tournament at Rouen – and send someone down to fetch Bishop Fisher immediately; my lady grandmother will soon be in need of his prayers.”

_Fat lot of good they’ll do her_ , Wolsey thought.

More spoke up. “I’ll go, sir; John Fisher’s an old friend.”

“Thank you, Tom,” Henry said, his eyes suspiciously dewy. “I…thank you for everything.”

Henry departed to his father’s chambers and More back down to the Chapel; Wolsey took a candelabrum from the side table and followed Compton into the dark, airless study, a skinny groom trailing behind them to light the fire. “Have you ever been in here before, Father?” Compton asked, running a pale hand over the intricate carving of the Florentine _cassone_ beside the door. “This furniture is magnificent.”

“I’ve never had the privilege but I’d heard quite a bit about it.” Although not, he added to himself, under the best of circumstances.

He’d been in royal service for only three weeks on that February day back in 1507. An early spring fever had begun to make its way through the servants’ hall, and although King Henry had quite sensibly decamped for Windsor with his son the royal priests had been asked to stay behind to provide whatever comfort they could to the dying; Wolsey, more afraid of losing his position than of death, had volunteered to hear their confessions. Happenstance – or the hand of God, perhaps – had brought him to the bedside of a dark little housemaid named Molly Hudson, only eighteen years of age, who had four years earlier witnessed…well, one couldn’t precisely call the actions of a king a crime _per se_ , even though in this case they certainly were criminal in nature.

It had happened in October of 1503, she’d said, at the King’s desk – the very desk he was standing in front of at the moment, in fact. Molly had been a virgin but even so she’d known what she saw when she barged into the room with a flagon of wine: known, too, that the terrified little Spanish princess was a far from willing participant. She’d agonized over not having told anyone at the time, was convinced that her silence constituted a mortal sin that would condemn her to Hell if she didn’t confess it. He’d absolved her, of course, even though there was no sin in keeping one’s mouth shut when speaking out would only shorten one’s life.

He crouched down and ran his hand over the soft Turkey carpet as the groom lit the rest of the candles. Molly had said there’d been a lot of blood to clean up afterwards, apparently more than a simple defloration would produce, although the girl had never been given the chance to make that comparison herself; her maidenly death had come only three hours after she confessed the sin she hadn’t committed. If only the true sinner had been the one to die that morning…

Perhaps that thought was treason but at the moment Wolsey didn’t give a damn. Katherine of Aragon deserved a far better hand than the one she’d been dealt in England.

He still said a prayer for little Molly’s soul every day, but the King’s? His only thoughts in that direction were directed at his confessor, Dr. Urswick, whom he prayed would force the King to tell his son of his monstrous act as a condition of absolution. It was a selfish prayer, of course, for if Urswick didn’t force his master’s hand Wolsey would have to break the sacramental seal himself and risk both the loss of the new king’s trust and the damnation of his immortal soul. But what was the soul of one man when the future of a realm hung in the balance?

The issue wasn’t the rape itself, horrific as that had been, but the bond of affinity created by it. Katherine had originally been married to Henry’s elder brother Arthur, the old king’s first Prince of Wales; after his sudden death the parties had signed a new treaty betrothing Katherine to Henry and had in addition obtained the necessary papal dispensations to ensure the marriage between the two would be valid in God’s eyes. But now Henry and Katherine would need an additional dispensation in respect of the ‘carnal relations’ that had occurred between his father and the young princess. Wolsey didn’t know Katherine, didn’t know if she’d be tempted to hide the attack out of shame or pride or even greed for the throne, but if she did fudge the truth and marry Henry without that further dispensation their children, including the next King of England, would be bastards in the sight of God and unfit to rule.

So the Prince had to be told – and that, above anything, would put paid to any chance of their marriage. His future master might lack a normal interest in women but he was otherwise a scrupulously honourable prince who would never parade a lady’s shame through the byways of Rome.

He rose to his feet as the groom bowed and left. “Do you think the Princess of Wales is on her dower lands?” he asked Compton once the door had closed.

“Katherine?” The courtier snorted a laugh. “I doubt it. If that slimy fucker Empson is one of her ‘trustees’, whatever that means, she’s got to be somewhere around London. I don’t think he and Dudley have been separated from the old man by more than ten miles since Queen Elizabeth died.”

“You’re probably right. The Prince does love her, you know.”

Compton’s cool stare told him just how well he knew his friend.

“Trust me, he does,” Wolsey maintained. “As a sister.”

“And you and I both know that’s all it’ll ever be unless by some miracle she’s grown a prick in the past five years.”

“God forbid.” He took a seat behind the desk and tested the top drawer, which was unlocked; it held nothing but a tightly folded letter sealed with wax and tied with twine. “Does More know?” he asked, drawing out the letter.

“Thomas More is a holy innocent, Father, and for that you can thank God in your prayers tonight,” Compton said as he flopped down into the big oak chair across from him. “I don’t think Harry’s in love with him, not exactly, but every boy who turns his head looks just like More did back when he was Henry’s tutor. Same long, wavy blond hair - it’s darkened since, you’ll note – same pale eyes, same long legs.” He gestured toward the packet in Wolsey’s hands. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, frowning down at the offending letter. “It’s inscribed, ‘To the Right Honourable the Lord Chancellor, to be Opened On Our Death’.”

Compton visibly recoiled. “Christ almighty. You’re going to give that to Warham?”

“Strictly speaking, the Archbishop of Canterbury won’t be the Right Honourable the Lord Chancellor once the King dies, will he?” he pointed out. “Break the rods of office, cast them in the grave; all is change.”

“And you think Harry will pick you?”

“I’m a nobody, Master Compton, at least for now,” he said. “I suspect he’ll appoint Archbishop Bainbridge; His Grace of York has discreetly shown his disdain for the ‘old man’, as you call him, on numerous occasions, and besides the realm would be better served by His Grace of Canterbury’s removal to as far away as possible. But whomever he chooses he isn’t going to name him immediately – and by the time he does, this,” and he held it up, “will be ashes.”

He nodded at the hearth. “So burn it now.”

Wolsey shook his head. “I don’t think it’s wise to destroy it unread, but I’m equally unwilling to have Bainbridge, Warham, or anyone else read it lest it contain something damaging about the Prince…or the Dowager Princess of Wales, for that matter.”

Compton’s brows suddenly furrowed. “Father, do you know more than you’re letting on about Katherine? If you do and you haven’t said anything to Harry…”

“If I knew something and if I were free to tell him I would have done so long ago. I will say this: I have never confessed the King but I have on occasion taken other confessions – of servants and the like – and I cannot break the seal of the sacrament, not even for this.” _Or at least,_ he added silently as he slipped the letter into his robes, _not for you._

Compton flushed, but after a moment’s pause he nodded. “No, that’s fair. I wonder, though—”

But the door opened just then to admit More along with one of the younger grooms, Jack Arundell, who’d brought wine; behind them Wolsey could hear the rumble of men climbing the stairs. “They’ve sealed the palace and called Lady Richmond and the councillors in again,” More told them. “Thank you, Jack; we’ll pour for ourselves.”

The groom bowed stiffly. “Yes, Master.”

“Won’t be long now,” Compton said, handing Wolsey a goblet as the door closed behind the boy. “Have a seat, Tom; the reverend father and I are discussing whom we think Henry will marry.”

More dragged a chair over from the side of the room. “But he’s betrothed to Princess Katherine,” he said. “He mentioned in his letter last week that he was looking forward to marrying her. They have dispensation; why wouldn’t they wed? Unless there’s some kind of canonical impediment he doesn’t know about…” and he gave Compton a look, “or is there?”

“There might be,” he replied, nodding at Wolsey, “but our friendly local priest is standing mute. He dropped the most tantalizing and remote of hints but now he won’t speak a word of what the issue is or whether it can be dispensed. He won’t even admit who spilled the beans, or even if there are any to spill.”

More frowned at him. “I assume you’re held silent by the seal of the confession, Father?”

He merely pressed his lips shut.

“Good,” he said with an approving nod. “No real priest would break that sacrament.”

Perhaps that made him imaginary.

In the distance the bells of St. Mary Magdalene chimed the hour. “Eleven o’clock,” Compton said, rising to his feet and sweeping open the curtains. “Moonless night.”

Wolsey swirled the wine in his goblet, his mind a thousand miles away. The Church taught that no good could come from sin; a laudable doctrine, perhaps, but one that clashed with reality at almost every turn. Squalid fornication had brought the world the great Leonardo, murder had most likely raised Isabella the Catholic to the throne, envy had drawn Henry V to Agincourt, and the current relationship between Pope Julius and his beloved cardinal formed the linchpin of Rome’s current might. On the other side, hope and charity to his sons had destroyed Henry II, mildness had mired Henry III in the Montfort rebellion, and celibacy had likely brought England not just the Norman invasion but also the latter part of the Cousin’s War, for there was no question in Wolsey’s mind that Henry VI’s frequent bouts of continence had been the driving force behind his madness.

He wasn’t prepared to let Prince Henry fall into that trap, of course, but he still found it a strange coincidence that the one boy the Prince constantly sought out with his eyes, the one he constantly confessed the sin of lust over, just happened to be the court’s only ganymede. It was all very convenient, almost as if the hand of God had been involved – and not just for Henry’s benefit either, as Wolsey had no doubt that the tedious business of governing would pale the moment he was able to introduce the delectable Ned into the young king’s bed. Yes…if Wolsey played his cards right he could find himself the most powerful man in England one day, perhaps even the most powerful man in Europe.

A woman’s strangled cry suddenly rang out in the corridor; they rose to their feet, crossing themselves as they exchanged glances. A few short minutes later the door swung open, but Prince Henry – no, surely King Henry now – seemed lost: lost in mind, in heart, even in soul, as if God had utterly abandoned him. “How could he…” he breathed, pushing the door shut behind him, his eyes wild with grief. “How could…”

“Sir?” More asked as all three men dropped to their knees in front of him.

“He raped her, Tom.” He leaned back against the oak door and slid slowly to the ground, his head in his hands, his voice only a hair above a whisper. “He raped Cata and he imprisoned her and her ladies in Durham House. Most of her household…most of them are dead.” He lifted his head, his eyes on More’s face. “He starved them deliberately, he said, hoped they’d all die one by one so Ferdinand would never suspect…how can I forgive…how could he…”

More held out a hand, just a simple, wordless gesture: the next thing they knew Henry was in his arms, sobbing out his soul against his shoulder.

He and Compton shared a glance; as one they rose and turned away from the spectacle, neither man willing to intrude on the King’s humiliation, rage, and, yes, grief, for Wolsey knew better than most that although the loved child may mourn what was, the unloved child mourns what can never be.

The new King finally calmed himself, but before More could follow him to his feet he held up a hand, his usual deep baritone thin and weak. “No, remain kneeling, please. Will, kneel down beside him.” He crossed to the far wall and pulled one of the swords above the hearth out of its mount. “I’d planned to reward both of you at the coronation for your support over the past six years but given what I’ve just learned it’ll have to be a battlefield investiture; after all, what is this but a war against evil?”

“Harry,” was all More could choke out, while Compton blinked away tears; they clearly hadn’t expected this.

Without another word Henry touched the blade of the sword to Thomas More’s right shoulder, then his left, doing the same to William Compton before turning to Wolsey. “I can’t knight a priest, Father, but I can and do name you my Almoner,” he said, his voice still thick with tears. “I’m sorry to ask you – all three of you – to rise early to leave with me for Westminster at seven and remain for the Council meeting, although I don’t know if any of us will get much sleep tonight. I…before anything else I have to decide what to do about this disaster, and I’m in desperate need of your advice.” He dropped into the chair behind his father’s desk with an exhausted sigh. “Sir William, Sir Thomas: please get up, take a seat. You too, my Lord Almoner.”

“Your Grace,” they chorused, More and Compton rising to their feet; Wolsey stopped to pour a goblet of wine for the King, who nodded his thanks.

“I’m afraid it’s a sad and bitter tale.” Little by little, Henry told them of the old man’s confession and the fate of the Princess of Wales; Wolsey was relieved that the account, painful as it was to hear, was fairly consistent with the story Molly Hudson had told him two years ago. Oh, the old man had downplayed the violence, but there were enough discrepancies in those parts of the story to let the truth of the matter shine through. He was only glad that Queen Elizabeth hadn’t lived long enough to see her beloved husband fall so far.

Then again, he likely wouldn’t have fallen at all had she not died before her time.

“I stopped to speak with Tom Ruthall after my father died,” the King said, his face still grim. “He told me that when my father arranged for him to be made Bishop of Durham after Dr. Stilltoe’s death he forbade him possession of his episcopal palace in Westminster due to ‘grave matters of state’. He thought that sounded suspicious and investigated the matter as best he could, but he discovered Durham House was heavily guarded by men fiercely loyal to my father alone; the captain refused to even speak to him. He was however able to befriend one of the newer guards, a young man named Clement Belasis who’s been acting as his eyes and ears for the past two months. Clement believes there are only six persons in the household: Catalina, two younger ladies, an older woman of around forty, a senile English priest…and a boy of about four years of age.”

Wolsey drew in a shocked breath; he hadn’t even considered the possibility—

“But the child could be anyone’s,” Compton said. “The Princess had a much larger household once, and if I remember right two or three of her ladies were married. And women can’t prove with child unless they get pleasure from the act; everyone knows that.”

“That’s far from the case, Sir William,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’ve represented Dartford Priory in the ecclesiastical courts on numerous occasions; many of its residents could personally attest to the inaccuracy of that belief.”

“My father saw many a foundling case come to court after the Cornish rebellion,” More added. “Those women couldn’t have all been lying either.”

Henry swore under his breath. “Then why do the physicians say otherwise?”

More could only shrug. “I suppose a few hope it’ll lead men to be kind to their wives, but most simply don’t know anything of women’s matters.”

But something else was bothering Compton. “Sir, if the Princess’s guards are that fiercely loyal to your lord father, what will they do when they hear of his death?”

Henry’s eyes widened. “God’s blood!” he shouted as he jumped to his feet and ran to the door, Wolsey and the other two rising behind him. “Mark! Fetch Sergeant Major Keyes immediately!”

“Would they really dare, sir?” More asked as they retook their seats. “Would they harm…no, of course they would; if the Usurper could kill Henry VI with the guards’ connivance one could just as easily kill the Princess of Wales.”

“Let’s hope men are more chivalrous these days,” Compton said. “Or at least more sensible.”

The room descended into tense silence as they waited for the sergeant major to arrive, Wolsey taking the opportunity to surreptitiously observe his new master – and how odd it was to think of him as such – as he rooted around in the desk for pen and paper. Henry was still paler than normal but the shock of the evening seemed to be dissipating; his brilliant green eyes had lost their red rings and the nervous lines between his high-arched brows had smoothed out. His thin lips were still pursed, though, and the cleft in his little round chin was deeper than ever. It was a fine show of calm, measured authority, but Henry Tudor the younger was the finest masquer he’d ever known; what his real feelings were at the moment Wolsey couldn’t be certain. Only a slight tremor of the lower lip spoke to whatever maelstrom remained raging within.

The King had just begun to scratch out a note when the door opened to admit the mountainous Nicholas Keyes. “Your Grace…” he began as he bowed – but he suddenly froze, just for an instant, before shaking his head as if to clear it.

“It must be strange to see me sitting here, Sergeant Major,” he said with a smile. “It’s strange from this side of the desk as well, I assure you. But never mind: a matter of great urgency has arisen concerning the Dowager Princess of Wales.” He explained the situation in general terms, leaving out the reason for Katherine’s incarceration. “My concern,” he said, “is that the guards at Durham House – I assume they aren’t a company of the Yeoman Warders?”

“Nay, Your Grace,” Keyes said. “I’ve heard talk of ‘em, but they don’t have a connection with us.”

“Then that’ll simplify matters. My concern is that they may harm the Princess and her ladies once they hear of my father’s death. One of the guards, a boy named Clement, is sympathetic; he told Bishop-elect Ruthall that there are twelve guards including him and that they live above what was once the stables, but that they don’t have direct contact with the household. I’m writing orders for the guards to stand down but I’m not sanguine they’ll obey.”

Keyes screwed up his face in thought. “Then I should take…sixteen should do it, if the lad you mentioned doesn’t feel the need to save face and fight alongside his mates. Shall we leave at dawn, Your Grace?”

“Within the hour, and take Ruthall with you; his authority may be of some use. I’d prefer to keep the Dowager Princess unaware of my impending arrival if at all possible so I’d like the guards removed to Westminster and quietly replaced by your men no later than sunrise. I’ll meet you there later in the morning; I intend to leave here by barge at seven.” He paused; in the distance Wolsey heard the midnight bells calling the faithful to prayer. “You should also be aware that there’s a small boy residing at Durham House. I don’t want him to suffer so much as a scratch.”

Keyes nodded. “I’ll have my men keep an eye out for him, sir.”

He finished the note, signing it with a flourish and handing it to the sergeant major. “Henry Rex: my first written order as King. I presume Sir Edmund Dudley and Sir Richard Empson are still at Westminster?”

“Aye, sir, in the Council chambers last I saw.”

Henry flashed a grin. “Excellent. Order them to surrender their chains of office to Archbishop Warham immediately on my command and confine them to their quarters with their households. I expect Dudley will comply but if Empson resists don’t hesitate to have him dragged down to the dungeons. That’ll be all for now; send in the groom on your way out as well, please.”

Keyes bowed again. “Your Grace.”

“A tough man but kind at heart, Keyes,” Henry said after the door closed behind the sergeant major. “Used to send his wife up with arnica salve. I should tell you that my father’s Council has proposed the court move to Westminster tomorrow for reasons of security. The Accession Council will meet there after we return from Durham House.”

“Westminster?” More asked, frowning. “Why not the Tower?”

Henry held out his hands. “The Royal Apartments aren’t fit for habitation. The Duke of Buckingham mentioned something about bats.”

Compton made a face. “Ye gads.”

“Sir,” Wolsey said, “perhaps the three of us could travel to Durham House tomorrow without Your Grace. Your day will already be overly full, and it’s not strictly speaking a king’s job to supervise physicians and guards.”

“With respect, Father, I disagree,” More said. “King Ferdinand will be incandescent when he hears of his daughter’s fate, so much so that a declaration of war isn’t out of the question. Our best hope of blunting his anger is if His Grace takes personal command of the situation.”

“And how many times has the Princess already been let down by men she thought she could trust?” Compton asked. “Is she really going to believe we mean her no harm if we show up at the gatehouse without Harry? Not bloody likely.”

“I agree with Tom and Will, Father,” Henry said. “This is a _casus belli_ if ever there was one and I’m needed there no less than if we were going into battle. Do you think I’d play the old Duke of Savoy, dallying behind the front lines while my men faced cannonballs? That said, I’m going to need one of you to take the news to my sisters at Eltham tomorrow as well.”

“I’d be willing to go, sir,” Compton said.

“Thank you. They’ll probably want to stay at Westminster until the funeral, so you’ll need a barge big enough to carry their households. Tom, I’ll need your good advice both at Durham House and at tomorrow’s Accession Council, but unless matters warrant I’ll let you go home afterwards so you can advise Lady More and the rest of your family of your new status.”

“Thank you, sir. Jo will be happier than words can say.”

“After all she’s gone through over the past year, Tom, she deserves all the happiness in the world.” He then turned to Wolsey. “Father, Dr. Ruthall’s man says Cata and her ladies are skin and bone, so much so that one or more of them may be at risk of imminent death. Given that the priest in residence is apparently senile there’s also a chance the child hasn’t been validly baptized, and it may have been years since any of the ladies have taken communion or were confessed. I’ll eventually make sure they each have a confessor of their own but if any of them are _in_ _extremis_ I’ll ask you to perform the offices on the spot.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll bring the Host and the other necessary items.”

He nodded. “I’ll also ask you to draft letters tomorrow to Margaret in Edinburgh and to my aunts. Is Sister Bridget—“

The door opened to admit young Arundell again. “Your Grace.”

“Jack! Just the man. Tell me, how many royal barges do we have here at Richmond?”

“Barges, sir?” he echoed with some surprise. “There’s the ten-man covered, the twelve-man open, a few smaller ones, the Archbishop’s…oh, and your lady grandmother’s as well. There are half a dozen more at Westminster.”

“Even better; that’s exactly where I need them. And the physicians and apothecaries are still in the palace?”

“Yes, sir, although some of the apothecaries are whining to—” He was suddenly cut off by a distant scream that carried through the door he’d left ajar; he deftly reached behind him and pushed it shut without looking. “Whining to leave.”

For some reason Henry grinned. “Do you know who that was?”

The boy looked confused. “No, sir.”

“That,” the King said, beaming by now, “was that bastard Richard Empson, and I give you my solemn word and guarantee that neither you or any of the other boys will ever have to deal with him again. My solemn word before God, Jack: he’s not escaping his just deserts this time.”

The boy froze; for a moment Wolsey was afraid he was about to collapse – but he quickly recollected himself, shaking his head as if to clear a cobweb. But the light of God was shining from his eyes; what, he wondered, had that ‘slimy fucker’, as Compton had so politely worded it, put the boy through? Surely not…

Henry’s voice interrupted his reverie. “That said, I’d like you to wait to tell the rest of the boys about his fate until tomorrow, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man. Now back to the barges: tell me…”

Compton and More shared a smile as King Henry and Jack discussed at length the various conveyances he planned to put into use the next day. Young Arundell was clearly destined for something greater than mere fetching and carrying, Wolsey judged; he had an excellent memory and an attention for detail rarely seen in a boy of only fourteen.

“So five, not counting those under repair,” Henry was saying. “Very well: order the bargeman to ready the twelve-man open for six o’clock for the physicians and the ten-man covered for seven o’clock for me, and have him affix the devices of the Prince of Wales to the latter. Also advise Dr. de Victoria that I would like to see him immediately in my – damn.”

“Sir?” More asked.

Henry grimaced. “I’ve been sleeping on a pallet at the foot of my father’s bed for the past five years. I can’t sleep in there tonight, not until they move his body and replace the mattress. Are there any free suites in the royal apartments, Jack?”

“Sir Hubert’s arranged for your lady mother’s apartments to be made ready, sir,” he replied. “He’s waiting outside the door should you wish to speak to him.”

“He is? Excellent. Then ask Dr. de Victoria to meet me there; we’ll share a late meal together. And let Sir Hubert know I’ll be out presently. That’ll be all; thank you.”

“That young man will go far, sir,” Wolsey ventured as soon as the door closed behind the boy.

Henry nodded. “I expect he won’t wait to gossip to his fellow grooms, although under the circumstances I can’t blame him. But getting back to our prior discussion, I can only assume my father’s act of violence has made it impossible for me to marry Cata. Is that your interpretation of canon law, Father?”

“Not strictly impossible, sir,” he replied, “but it would cause irreparable harm to Her Grace’s reputation and by association your own.” He explained the potential consequences of the assault, the King nodding grimly as he described how dispensations were handled by the Holy See. “The process is largely public in nature. The pleadings go through the hands of many men in Rome, none of whom have any interest in keeping royal secrets.”

“We could bribe them to keep their mouths shut,” Compton suggested.

More shot him a look. “With a story this explosive? There isn’t enough gold in Europe, Will.”

“I’m afraid Sir Thomas is correct, sir,” Wolsey said. “Any request would drag Her Grace’s name through the mud, staining her reputation forever, and if the boy is her child the Holy Father is in my opinion unlikely to grant the dispensation.”

“I won’t put her through that,” Henry decided, his voice firm. “Never. So if I can’t marry her what can I do – or, better put, what can she do?”

“She could return to Spain with her dowry but King Ferdinand would likely have her in a convent the moment her feet touched Spanish soil,” More said. “He might be talked into arranging a new marriage for her but only if she pretended to still be a virgin, and in my estimation she’s far too moral a woman to lie about such a matter.”

“Far too intelligent, too,” Henry agreed. “I understand it’s an easy fib to catch out—”

_As if you would know_ , Wolsey thought.

“—which means I can’t arrange a marriage for her either. So that leaves only one possibility: I’ll invite her to remain in England as my sister. She’ll need lands to support her dignity as Dowager Princess of Wales over and above her dower, if that even still exists; I’m sure she’ll eventually choose to live away from court, but perhaps not as far away as Wales. Lord Surrey forfeited an honour on the South Downs – Bramber, I think. I’ll ask him if I can grant it to her in return for my great-uncle’s lands in Pembrokeshire.” He rose to his feet, the other men following him. “But then again I could just give the honour to her. I can do anything I want short of changing the tides, can’t I, Tom?”

More smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“And I’d be a thrice-damned fool if I did. I remember you telling me when I was a child that the lion should never be told his strength or else he couldn’t be controlled. This lion…I know exactly how strong I am, gentlemen, and the thought scares me to death – everything seems…” but he waved a hand, the strain of the last few hours showing through the façade only for an instant. “There is one more thing: I must ask the three of you not to discuss this matter with anyone. I suppose I’ll have to tell Dr. de Victoria, but otherwise…”

“I give you my word, sir,” Wolsey said, the other two chiming in with vows of their own.

“Then we’ll meet tomorrow at seven,” Henry said. “Sir Thomas, Sir William, my Lord Almoner: I bid you a good night.”

Compton turned a sardonic eye on Wolsey and More as the door closed behind the new King. “And that is that. We shall have a Dowager Princess of Wales at court until – what is it, Tom?” he asked as More swore under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he were suffering from the worst headache of his life.

Wolsey quickly moved to pour another goblet of wine. “Sir Thomas, are you well? Should we call—”

More suddenly looked up, but not at Wolsey; his eyes were instead fixed on the door. “I’d prayed he’d left that behind. I’d prayed he’d changed. He hasn’t, has he?”

Wolsey and Compton exchanged a look; clearly he wasn’t the innocent they’d thought. “How long have you known?” Compton asked.

“Since he was twelve. I pray for him: nothing. I pray for my friend Erasmus: nothing. I pray for the Holy Father…” He snorted a bitter laugh. “All of Christendom prays for the Holy Father. Imagine if the Prince of the Asturias had survived his mother; we’d have sodomites ruling half of Europe.”

Wolsey frowned, puzzled. “Katherine’s brother?”

“Didn’t you know?” he said, meeting his gaze. “That’s why Henry was so eager to marry her: she understands. The Infante Juan, the Holy Father, the King of England, Erasmus…all plagued by filthy, unnatural cravings, all vile heretics in theory.” He crossed to the door and reached for the handle, then looked back over his shoulder at them. “And all of them the very best and most Christian of men. How is that possible, gentlemen? If you find out, let me know.”

Wolsey caught Compton’s eye once More had departed. “And I was going to write to Cardinal Alidosi and ask him for the current opinions at Rome.”

“He’s probably too busy sucking the Holy Father’s cock to write back anyway.” He stretched, giving an almighty yawn. “Sir William Compton; my mother will be pleased. Yours?”

“I’m an orphan.” He gave Compton a sidelong look. “Aren’t you concerned about the King’s proclivity?”

“I find it easier not to care too much about who wants to stick what in whom. Still, we’re going to have to distract Harry with a handsome bit of stuff before he plights his troth to the wrong man and we end up with another Piers Gaveston.”

And that, he thought as he bade Compton a good night, was the wisest thing anyone had said that evening.

The corridors of the South Wing were all but deserted that night, and if the sentries longed to be among those quietly celebrating behind locked doors they didn’t show it. “Any rumours flying yet?” he asked his factotum, Robert Rushton, who was waiting in his rooms with a cold collation.

“Just that the King died at eleven, that old Lady Richmond screamed and had to be helped to her bedchamber…” He paused as he was pouring the ale. “Oh, and that Sir Edmund Dudley is confined to his rooms. They said Empson was dragged down to the dungeons in chains, but I don’t know if I believe that; where would they get chains on such short notice? Either way, they say the bastard’s never going to be free again.”

So much for secrecy. “That’s my understanding as well,” he said. “What’s the issue with him anyway? Does he beat the grooms, or interfere with them?”

“Mainly beats them, sir, but he threw Jack Arundell down a flight of stairs last week. It’s only God’s luck he didn’t snap his neck or break a leg; he’s still black and blue up one side.”

Which explained both Jack’s stiff bow and Henry’s glee at sending Empson to prison; it was as close as he could get to punishing his own father. “And Sir Edmund?”

“Dudley, sir? He might be a slippery bastard but he’s as kind a man as you’d want to meet.” He paused again. “A bit disorganized, though. He left one of his sons behind at Westminster last month; John, I think, not the funny-looking one.”

“He’ll never make that mistake again. In fact, he’ll be lucky to see any of his children again after tonight. Thank you, Rob; wake me at six tomorrow, if you will, and once the palace is unsealed send a note to Joan letting her know I’m well and on my master’s business. You are looking at the King’s new Lord Almoner.”

His face lit up. “Congratulations, sir! I’ll have a message sent to Mistress Larke straight away.”

Wolsey finished the meal of fish and bread and entered his bedchamber, his mind still on his own good fortune. The Lord Almoner was responsible for more than merely the King’s charitable giving; he was also traditionally his fixer, tasked with handling those matters too delicate to bring to the attention of the Privy Council. He could think of no better showcase for his talents…and no more remunerative one, either.

He was removing his overgown when the letter he’d taken from the King’s study fell out of the folds; rueing his decision to bring it with him, he picked it up and carried it to the chair by the fire, unpicking the twine and breaking open the seal.

> _Your Grace,_ it began,
> 
> _In your missive of 14 Feb ultimo you asked us once again to consider remarriage in order to secure the succession of our realm. This letter is meant not only as explanation for our failure to do so but also as warning, for our celibacy is involuntary and, perhaps, illusionary. The matter cannot be explained but with some difficulty, but it is imperative that it be explained and that action be taken by you or your successor to protect our realm once we are in God’s arms and unable to do so._
> 
> _You are no doubt aware, Your Grace, of the circumstances of Katherine, Dowager Princess of Wales, who remains at Durham House despite the passing of Bishop Stilltoe last year. What you are not aware of is why we have kept her so straitly. We freely admit our fault in the matter, but understand this: the lion’s share of the blame rests on the shoulders of His Grace the Prince of Wales. He is cursed with a sin so black we hardly dare mention it, a sin that must be extirpated lest it infect the entire realm._

And that, Wolsey thought, explained a great deal.

He’d always assumed that King Henry had no idea of his son’s abnormal nature. He’d never spoken of it during his weekly interrogations, had never alluded to it even obliquely during his public meetings with the Prince. But the letter made it clear that he had known – made it clear, in fact, that the knowledge was likely one of the matters that had driven him to drink. And no wonder: what must it have been like for him to have spent a lifetime fighting rebels, usurpers, and pretenders only to discover that his only surviving son was another Edward II, as likely to be deposed and killed as not?

Still, the old man’s reaction had been far more extreme than the situation had warranted. Had he not been so violent against his son perhaps the boy would have developed confidence and outgrown…but no: in his experience fully unnatural men like the new king never changed their inclinations no matter what the Church or the physicians taught. They might be induced to marry, even sire sons, but they never outgrew their craving for a man’s touch.

With a sigh he returned to the letter.

> _We freely admit that we have not handled the matter well. As King we did nothing to remove him from the succession, benumbed by the knowledge that without a Prince of Wales the security of our throne would be threatened and we could fall as quickly as our predecessor the Usurper did once his son sunk into the grave. But we also knew that a prince cursed by the filthiest of heresies could never be a successful king. Why, then, have we not simply remarried, sired another son, and quietly disposed of our heir? Therein lies our greatest misstep. As the truth of our situation became clear we grew intemperate and foolishly directed our fury at the Dowager Princess of Wales. Excessive wine was involved, we admit, but the greatest share of the blame must still fall on His Grace the Prince alone for the stain which provoked our own most regrettable insult against Her Grace’s person. I trust I do not have to elucidate._

He was suddenly very glad Warham hadn’t read the letter. Any man could, given sufficient devilish influence, commit a sin as vile as rape, but it took a truly malicious man to assign that sin to someone else. William Warham had once loved the old King like a brother; these words would surely have broken his heart.

He read on:

> _This is also why we have not remarried. Your Grace will recall the Treaty of Toledo of 1503 in which our heir agreed per verba de præsenti to marry the Dowager Princess. What you may not recall are the tentative negotiations that were undertaken at the same time to marry her to ourself and which, we fear, might have constituted a betrothal per verba de futuro. If that is indeed the case, the consummation (as it were) may have resulted in our marriage to her. This uncertainty has stayed our hand with respect to both remarriage and her removal, for if she be our wife we can neither marry another nor directly order her disposal. We can only hope that our recent decision to transfer the responsibility for her welfare from the Bishop of Durham to two of our loyal lay servants will have the intended effect. Churchmen, as we have had the misfortune to discover with the late Dr. Stilltoe, are loath to dirty their hands even in the service of their king._

He barked a laugh; how haphazard his late master’s education had been. The old king should have picked up some smatterings of the law during his peripatetic childhood but clearly he hadn’t learned enough, as he didn’t even know that a woman couldn’t be betrothed to two men at the same time. Why had he not simply asked someone…but no, that was never his way. Secret, secret, always secret, then the explosion – and woe to those close enough to be burned.

And had he really expected Lawrence Stilltoe to kill Katherine? The weak, kindly old Bishop of Durham who’d died in his bed last November? Ridiculous.

There were thankfully only two more pages remaining. He debated flinging them into the fire unread, but no: he would finish what he’d begun.

> _We must also caution you against a young London barrister named Thomas More, whom we caused to be exiled from court once the truth of the Prince of Wales’s sinful nature became apparent. It was at that time our suspicion that Master More had corrupted the Prince but although we continue to enforce the exile it has grown apparent from our investigations that we may have been mistaken on this account, as the young man seems unstained by any greater sin than an unnecessary reverence for the law. We however advise vigilance and remind you of the useful example of the stake should he prove a secret sodomite._
> 
> _We had hoped the Princess would precede us in death and we would be free to remarry and sire a new heir. Our health, we are forced to admit, now makes this unlikely. So the Prince of Wales must succeed – for now. Let him marry, willingly or not, and sire sons if he can. Once he does and England possesses an uncursed prince…well, we have found arsenic a sure remedy for any ill the axe cannot touch. As for the Dowager Princess, do what you will with her: she is of no matter to us. We are sure she would make an excellent whore if the Prince casts her away as corrupt._
> 
> _We pray that it is many years before you open this letter. Perhaps God will grant us a long enough life to remarry and ensure the continuation of our House, but rest assured that no matter what happens we are certain of His mercy. We have done our best._
> 
> _Henry Rex_

The air suddenly seemed too thick to breathe; he rose to his feet and threw open the window, drawing in lungful after lungful of cool night air in a futile attempt to clear his mind and soul of what he’d just read.

Old King Henry hadn’t been mad at all, he suddenly realized. He’d been nothing less than a black and noxious cancer eating away at the heart of the realm from above, his tentacles reaching out and strangling all they touched. Wolsey couldn’t fault the hand of God for waiting to extirpate the filth until Prince Henry was old enough to rule in his own right, but if Warham had chanced to read the letter…or had he truly been the intended recipient? If the old man had truly wanted Warham to have it he surely would have given it to him. But he’d left it sitting in an unlocked desk drawer in his study, the first place his son would look…

And the sudden realization of what the old man had been up to drove him to his knees with a gasp.

The bragging, the insults, the threats against Henry, Thomas More, and even Katherine had all been intended for his son’s eyes alone. The letter was nothing more than another box of the ears, another kick to the ribs, but this blow was intended to cause far more pain than a mere beating. He’d wanted young Henry to know just how much contempt he’d held him in, just how much he despised and loathed him. He’d wanted to shame Henry over his nature, had wanted him to assume the blame for the ruin of his betrothed, had wanted him to know just how close to the precipice his mentor had dangled during his father’s reign and how hopeless any love he felt for him had been…as if he wouldn’t already know.

He returned to the hearth and thrust the letter into the fire. No man should be forced to read such foul words in his own father’s hand. Mercy indeed: if Henry Tudor wasn’t burning in Hell at that moment he wanted God to explain why.

The bells of St. Mary Magdalene’s chimed one o’clock; Wolsey shut the window and unbuttoned his cassock, resolutely turning his mind from the evil he’d encountered that night to the evils they would face the next day. What a dark twist of devilish irony it would be if Katherine were to die now that her great enemy had departed for the netherworld. He could only pray – and that again with the greatest sincerity – that Ruthall’s informant had overstated the matter and that Katherine and her ladies were well and healthy. Nevertheless he would prepare himself to perform whichever offices they required, be that baptism, penance, or Extreme Unction.

As for the child? He hadn’t lied when he told Compton that he hoped the lad wasn’t hers; he wouldn’t wish such humiliation on a serving wench, let alone a pious and honourable princess of the blood, yet if he were her child that would suit his plans very well – very well indeed.

He pulled the bedhangings shut and closed his eyes; perhaps just for that one night he would dare to dream of Italy.


	3. Casus Belli

22 April 1509  
Richmond Palace

  
A king, Henry firmly believed, should be able to do anything he damn well pleased.

With a groan he swung his legs out from under the too-short fur coverlet and pushed aside the bedcurtains, peering out into the dimly lit room. He was King of England, if only of two hours’ standing: lord of a great realm, master of millions of subjects bound to submit to his will. He could give any lawful order and have it obeyed immediately; he could declare war and lead men to their deaths; he could send a miscreant to the scaffold with a flick of his pen. All that staggering power, all that invincible might, and still he could not force himself to fall asleep any more than he could control the tides.

If anyone had asked him why his eyes kept fluttering open the moment he closed them he might have uttered a polite lie about his father’s death, but he hadn’t been kept awake by memories of that ragged cough, those raspy breaths, or even that instant when the next breath failed to come and every eye turned to him. No, his mind couldn’t let go of the old man’s final, malicious confession.

He should have known!

Father had been drunk that day, as if that excused anything; drunk and furious that Catalina had come begging for money, doubly furious that she dared live while his beloved lady Queen lay cold in her grave. He’d called the attack a ‘regrettable incident’ and in almost the same breath had ordered Henry to marry the girl he’d so vilely dishonoured. ‘Get a dispensation,’ he’d rasped. ‘The Holy Father will understand.’

The admission had left Henry benumbed by shock and disgust, unable to so much as mouth a word in response - but what could he have said? What words could have conveyed his anger, his grief? Had the old man expected thanks for having destroyed Cata’s life, for having sent so many good and innocent people to their deaths? Had he expected Henry's absolution for a sin God could hardly forgive? Whatever he'd hoped for, though, all he'd got from his son was an open-mouthed stare and a hasty retreat to let the priests back in.

But vile sinner or not his father would have to be given a stately funeral with a noble eulogy and as many masses as Henry's Privy Purse could afford, if only to soothe Grandmother Margaret's broken heart. To die a King and be mourned only by one’s own mother…

He rose with a sigh and reached for his robe and slippers, but in doing so he inadvertently awoke the groom (if one could use that word to describe a man of Hal Norris’s age and experience) who’d been slumbering on a pallet at the foot of the bed. “Y-your Grace,” Norris stammered, blinking himself awake as he stumbled to his feet. “Is there something…”

He shook his head. “Forgive me, Hal; I didn’t mean to wake you but I simply can’t sleep. I’m worried about – well, a thousand things, but my lady grandmother is the most pressing. Do you think Bishop Fisher is still awake?”

“I can check if you’d like, sir.”

“If he is, please ask him to attend on me.”

The door closed behind the yawning Norris, leaving Henry alone in his mother’s old bedchamber – alone, he realized with a start, for the first time in his life.

It was entirely otherworldly. Oh, there were guards just outside the door; one shout and he’d be surrounded. But he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t dare interrupt the whispers of the night: the fire crackling in the hearth, the wind soughing outside the window, the bark of a dog in the stables, the faint, steady rasp of his own breath, the goose pimples rising on his forearms…

The King is dead: long live the King.

His knees buckled under him and he dropped like a stone to the floor; he was free!

Never again would he be forced to play the meek, submissive son; never again would he have to allow himself to be beaten black and blue or kicked until the bones cracked under his skin. No more pain, no more humiliation: his person was now as sacred as the Host, as sacred as an altar cloth or a chalice. No man would ever have the right to touch him again unless he wanted it—

And a bolt of white-hot desire shot through him.

He didn’t know the name of the beautiful blond who flitted in and out of court like a whisper, didn’t know if he would ever countenance…but he stopped, groaning aloud as he imagined the slim back curving down to tight buttocks and muscular thighs, the swanlike neck, the masses of honeyed hair, the soft Cupid’s bow lips God had surely put on this earth for Henry to kiss…

He sprung to his feet with an impatient growl; _control yourself, dammit!_ Cata could be dying at that very moment; how could he be so lewd, so base as to indulge in wanton lust? But as he crossed to the washstand and splashed ice-cold water on his face he realized he already knew that answer. Power intoxicated, power aroused; why else would men seek it with the fervour and abandon of Sir Lancelot in search of Guinevere?

Even the old man hadn’t been able to deny its allure. Henry must have been about nine or ten the day he’d asked Father what it had felt like to become King. He’d given it some thought but finally replied that it had been as if the Holy Ghost had descended into his soul. ‘Although that was hardly my impression at the moment,’ he’d added with a wry grin, leaning toward Henry and lowering his voice. ‘All I craved after seeing Richard’s brains spill out at my feet was a soft bed and a willing, open-legged wench. Now that was some time before I met and married your lady mother, I do admit, but you’ll still keep it to yourself, won’t you?’

Father had been a very different man back then: a good husband, a just king, even a loving parent. When had it all gone wrong? At Arthur’s death? His mother’s? Or had it been that fateful day when, still heart-sick months after Mother’s death, he’d barged into Henry’s rooms and discovered him kissing one of the pages? The sweetness of the boy’s lips against his had seemed well worth the beating he’d received, at least until he’d discovered that the page had lost his position. Had he been sent back to his family, had he been immured in a monastery? Henry was ashamed to realize he couldn’t even remember his name.

He lifted his head, examining his reflection in the dim firelight. Unlined and boyish, only a small pockmark at the right temple marring the pale, clear skin, he could have been an angel in his grandmother’s favourite diptych or a boy in Dr. Atwater’s choir. A callow boy he must seem to his father’s councillors; a callow boy he truly was.

But not half as callow as his father had intended, praise God. His life might have been more constricted and controlled than that of any prince in history but Father had never objected to his books, or for that matter his friendships with Will Compton and Charles Brandon; perhaps he’d hoped their knightly virtues (such as they were) and love of women would rub off on him. He’d also been allowed to study under John Fisher for the last year at his grandmother’s request – well, orders – but that was as far as he’d allowed Henry to go. One word spoken out of turn to the wrong courtier, one question in the wrong man’s ear, and he would have been lucky to receive only a kick to the ribs. If he’d ever learned about Tom’s clandestine letters…

He tore himself away from the mirror, fiercely suppressing the rage threatening to boil over. He’d had to submit far too long to his father’s blows despite every fibre of his being crying out for vengeance. There and then he made two vows: that he would never knowingly harm a child, and that no man would ever be suffered to raise a hand to him outside the field of battle.

A sudden noise came from the anteroom; he took a deep breath and composed his face before opening the door to find Archbishop Bainbridge and Bishop Fisher deep in discussion. “Good evening, Your Graces.”

“Good evening, sire,” John Fisher said as they bowed to him. “Master Norris said you wished to see me, and as I was in attendance on His Grace of York—”

“No need to apologize; had I known you were both still awake I’d have asked Hal to fetch you both. Please, come in.”

With obvious trepidation they entered the bedchamber, Fisher surveying the dimly lit room with a troubled frown as Nick Carew followed them in to light the candles. “Were you left alone, sire?” he asked. “It’s most unusual for a king to remain unguarded and unserved, especially at night when Satan lurks in the shadows.”

“Unusual and unwise,” he agreed, keeping his voice even, “but a novel sensation all the same. Pray tell, how fares my lady grandmother?”

“Heartbroken beyond comfort, I’m afraid. Her physician has given her a sleeping potion and put her to bed, but Lady Richmond isn’t in the best of health, sire; I worry for her.”

“As do I. I’ll speak with her in the morning if she’s well enough. She’ll likely wish to be involved in the arrangements for Father’s funeral; I suppose Garter King of Arms will…”

But he paused as Harry Norris brought in wine. “Thank you, Hal; please wait outside.”

Bainbridge sent him a questioning glance, but he merely shook his head and waited until Norris and Carew had left to gesture toward the table in the corner of the room. “I don’t intend to make a habit of going unserved but there’s a matter of some delicacy I must discuss with both of you in confidence. If you’d join me?”

Once they were seated Henry provided Fisher and Bainbridge with an edited version of his father’s last words, leaving out the matter of the attack; by the time he was done Bainbridge’s face had gone stark white while Fisher was…pensive, Henry thought, but seemingly not surprised. “A monstrous tale,” Bainbridge said, pushing his goblet away as if its odour sickened him, “but I must agree with Your Grace; no man would confess to confining and starving a princess of the blood were it not true.”

“It would beggar belief otherwise,” Fisher agreed.

“I might not have believed it myself but Dr. Ruthall was able to provide limited confirmation of my father’s claim. He didn’t feel he could break his vows and enter his episcopal palace against direct orders but he did befriend a young guard who took the position at Candlemas this year and was horrified by what he discovered. Clement – the guard – believes she and three of her ladies are still alive but in terrible condition with a senile priest as their only companion.” He leaned back in his chair, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I still don’t understand why King Ferdinand’s never protested her disappearance, at least as far as I’ve heard. Granted he hasn’t appointed a permanent ambassador since ‘03 but there have been envoys in residence from time to time; I would have thought he’d insist that one of them be permitted to visit her.”

“Perhaps Your Grace would find it useful to review your father’s papers relating to Spain,” Bainbridge suggested. “What little that exists is on file here at Richmond. I could fetch the documents now…”

“I would like to see them,” he replied, “but I hesitate to send an archbishop on a matter a mere clerk could handle.”

He dismissed Henry’s concerns with a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Sir, as your father’s principal secretary I would be the man to send in any case. It would also be best if the matter not travel further than it has to; once clerks and scribes become involved the rumour mill will be impossible to stop. Shall I fetch the folders now so that you have the information on hand for tomorrow’s Council meeting?”

“I suppose we’ll have to discuss the matter to some extent; thank you.”

Bainbridge made his bows and left; Henry poured himself another goblet of wine and turned back to Fisher. “I understand that…”

But the bishop was a thousand miles away, his fingers mindlessly picking at the sleeve of his cassock. “Your Grace, what is it?” Henry asked. “I don't mind an honest question, I assure you.”

“I...I have no right to ask this, sire, but…your lady grandmother overheard…” He suddenly looked up into Henry’s face, fear plain in his eyes and his voice barely a whisper. “Was it rape?”

His mouth dropped open; how on earth…

“I only ask,” Fisher continued, “because my Lady Richmond said she heard a scream coming from the direction of the King’s study one night – on the feast of St. Ursula, she said, five or six years ago – and the next morning she was informed that the Princess had departed for Wales without taking her leave.” His lips thinned. “She’s always suspected something was awry. At first I thought she’d imagined the scream but as the years passed and the Princess didn’t return to court I began to wonder if she was right.”

He had no idea what to say to that. Fisher he trusted; the bishop had, after all, supervised the reformation of Dartford Priory on behalf of Henry’s mother, transforming it from a conventional cloister to a haven not just for natural daughters of the aristocracy and teaching sisters but also for victims of men’s violence. In fact, if Cata wished to withdraw from the world he’d suggest she seek shelter within its walls. But his grandmother Margaret Beaufort was a woman of strong but wholly traditional piety who had grown up hearing tales not of the honourable Lucrece but of the harlot Guinevere; like most of her generation she surely saw victims of male lust as corrupt Jezebels. How angry she must be at Cata, how ashamed – but if the boy were indeed her grandson she had every right to know of his existence even if she were certain to repudiate him.

“There’s a part of me that wishes to shout you down,” he finally said after taking a sip of wine to soothe his rebellious stomach, “but I’m not so stupid as to follow my father’s example and punish men for speaking the inconvenient truth or…or for asking the right questions.”

Their eyes met. “Sire, if you feel it’s not my right to know…”

“My lady grandmother will doubtless have questions,” he said, “but in truth I don’t know what I can tell you at this point; everything I know comes either from my father’s last words or Dr. Ruthall’s informant. There is something I don’t want the rest of the councillors to know of, at least not yet: there’s also a small boy living at Durham House, although Ruthall’s man obviously doesn’t know whose child he is.”

Fisher’s head dropped into his hands.

“I’ve asked Father Wolsey, Tom More, and Will Compton to accompany me to Durham House tomorrow morning,” Henry added. “They were with me after I heard…after Father’s death, and they’ll also be at the meeting of the Accession Council later tomorrow. I would ask you to come with us but I’d rather you remain with my lady grandmother here at Richmond tomorrow morning. Her life and health are as precious to me as my own.”

“And if she does ask?”

“You may relate the entire tale if you think her well enough to hear it – in strictest confidence, of course. I’d rather her ladies not overhear.”

“I will be careful.” He paused. “Sire, about the boy…if he is indeed Your Highness’s brother, as a royal bastard he may pose a significant threat to the stability of the realm. Bastards have contested the throne in many countries – Castile most notably but also Cyprus and, if I recall correctly, Navarre. I would therefore advise caution in recognizing him unless you believe there is political advantage to doing so.”

He sighed; as if he didn’t already know. “Or unless he bears such a close resemblance to my father that not recognizing him could make things worse.”

Whatever the bishop had meant to say in reply to that was cut off by the return of Christopher Bainbridge, two leather folders tucked under his arm. “The Spanish correspondence, Your Grace,” he said. “I also took the liberty of retrieving a folder I discovered tucked into the back of your lord father’s private files last week. The first letter appears to have been addressed to Queen Isabella but I’m unable to read Spanish so I’m unclear as to what it says.”

Which, he thought, was probably for the best.

He rose to his feet and took both folders from the drooping archbishop, Fisher rising with him. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “I’ll review the contents in the morning. I don’t doubt the two of you have long been desiring your beds so I’ll wish you both a good night.”

“Good night, sire,” they chorused.

Henry followed them into the anteroom where Norris and Carew had been chatting; at his nod they accompanied him into the bedchamber. “Hal,” he asked, “is my father’s collar of estate at Richmond? It has to be somewhere.”

He swallowed nervously. “It’s in his bedchamber, sir; shall I retrieve it now?”

“Morning is fine. Before I forget, I’ll also need a larger bed once we reach Westminster; I can barely squeeze into my lady mother’s.”

“We could easily have the bed replaced with a longer one – no, Nick, leave the wine. Might I inquire as to Your Grace’s height?”

“Six feet seven inches if my tailor’s to be believed.” He removed his robe and draped it on a chair. “I’m not sure if we even have a frame long enough.”

Norris considered the matter. “Actually, the Duke of Bedford’s bed should suit very well, and if I recall correctly it’s still in his suite. Shall I have it moved into the King’s Apartments tomorrow before Your Grace retires?”

“There’s no need. I’ll occupy Uncle Jasper’s rooms until I can have my father’s redone.” And every stick of furniture smashed to bits, he added to himself.

The room suddenly began to swim before his eyes; without another word he eased himself into the bed diagonally, pulling the bedhangings closed behind him…and the next thing he knew Norris’s voice was in his ear. “Good morning, Your Grace; it’s six o’clock.”

He cracked open an eye. “Already?”

“Yes, sir. Your breakfast will arrive presently.”

With a muttered oath he dragged himself to his feet and made his way across to the washstand, wincing at the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Princes normally didn’t shave or dress themselves but Henry had been forced to do without the assistance of male servants for so long that he’d become a capable valet and barber, at least when he could stand close enough to the mirror to see what he was doing. That said, he knew he couldn’t continue to serve himself as King. If only his father had kept a proper Household… “Do you know if my father’s personal servants are willing to transfer to my service?” he asked Norris as he lathered up his face. “I’ve heard rumours a few of them intend to retire.”

“From what I understand, sir, his barber retired last week,” Norris replied, handing him the razor. “He’s quite advanced in age.”

Also no fool to get out before the end, he thought. “Which means I’ll have to engage a new one. Until things are settled, however, I’ll shave myself if you’ll act as Esquire of the Body and help me dress in the interim. It’s not a job I’d normally expect a man of your calibre to handle but under the circumstances…”

Norris smiled. “It’s no trouble at all, sir.”

Fortunately Henry had never been able to grow much of a beard; by the time he’d finished scraping off the sparse, patchy whiskers and had scrubbed himself clean from head to foot Norris was already laying out his dress for the day. “I don’t recognize that doublet,” he said. “Was it my father’s?”

“No, sir; it was brought to Richmond last week by Your Grace’s tailor. It’s my understanding that my Lord Shrewsbury spoke with Master Watson last month when your father’s health began to fail and had him prepare a number of outfits suitable for a king.”

A sensible precaution, he thought as he held out his arms. There was in truth nothing in his wardrobe that could be considered shameful – even his father had understood that a prince couldn’t be seen in rags – but none of it was costly or elaborate enough to be suitable for a king, even one in mourning. Then again, kings weren’t supposed to openly mourn…a convenient tradition under the circumstances, he supposed.

Once he was dressed he inspected himself in the mirror. “Did you find the collar?”

But Norris was already on his tiptoes lifting it over Henry’s head. “Will Your Grace be leaving for Westminster immediately after breakfast or later this morning?” he asked as he settled the gold chain over the ermine trim of Henry’s brocade overgown, giving it a final tug to set it in place.

And that answered one question rolling around in his mind; Norris clearly wasn’t the type to listen at doors. “At seven,” he replied – but as he faced the mirror again, comb in hand, his eyes strayed not to his tangled mop of red hair but to the chain around his neck.

He was King of England: unquestioned master not just of his own fate – and how terrifying that fact was all on its own – but also of those of countless men, women, and children. A single careless word of his could send a man to his death; a nod at the wrong moment, a mistimed laugh, could condemn a woman and her children to perpetual poverty. Why would any man desire such power unless the alternative were death?

But of course that was far too often the case. Had his father not wrested power from the Usurper he would likely have died by an assassin’s hand and Henry himself would never have been born. Richard had murdered his own nephews, after all; what would have stopped him from arranging the death of an inconvenient Welsh cousin?

With a sigh he combed out his hair and took his new hat from Norris as one of the grooms brought in breakfast. “Thank you, Hal. Oh, before I forget: I’d like there to be Castile soap and warm water ready for use in my rooms at all times – and let the court and the Household know discreetly that I’d prefer not to be addressed as ‘Sire’ or ‘Majesty’. I’m the King of Christian England, not Sultan of the infidels.”

Norris smiled. “I’ll pass the word on, Your Grace.”

Henry gave his reflection a wry grin once he was alone. In truth he didn’t much care how his courtiers addressed him but he was mindful that God called men to respect and obey those whom He had raised high, not to shower them with fawning praise that only served to blind them and embitter their enemies.

Over breakfast he went through the folders Bainbridge had brought him the previous evening. The first, marked ‘SPAIN 1507-09’, seemed the most promising, but it contained little more than a sheaf of indecipherable notes from an English merchant in Madrid named John Stile and a series of receipts for messengers’ expenses…but wait: the last item was a fair copy of a letter his father had sent King Ferdinand of Aragon last autumn, written in his own hand.

The first two pages contained nothing of particular interest; Father sent his regards to Queen Germaine and inquired after her health, reminded Ferdinand of his eternal suspicions regarding King Louis of France, and suggested that they negotiate a treaty formalizing fishing rights off the coast of the New Found Land. It was only on the last page that he bothered to mention Cata or, better put, her ‘sad condition’ which, he assured Ferdinand, he would never advertise to the world by publicly repudiating the Treaty of Toledo.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. What had he meant by ‘sad condition’? Had he told them Cata had gone mad like her sister Juana, and if so why hadn’t Ferdinand pushed for her to be returned to Spain? With some trepidation he pushed the folder aside and untied the second, incongruously labelled ‘Alms, Chelmsford: 1503’.

The first document in that folder was a draft in Spanish dated 3 April 1504 in Cata’s name (but his father’s hand, he noticed, although his attempts to disguise it as a scribe’s improved as the letter went on) and addressed, as Bainbridge had mentioned, to Queen Isabella. It contained a description of the Shrovetide carnival at Llanllyr, a mention of the English king’s ‘kindness’ in providing her with a safe haven where she could retire from the world, and a request for Isabella to send her white Seville lily bulbs and – and dried puppy blood.

_Puppy blood?!_

For a moment he wished he could call back Dr. de Victoria. Why had his father thought that Cata, who loved animals so dearly, would ask her mother to have a puppy killed and bled for her? And which ‘sad condition’ called for such a barbaric remedy anyway?

The next was in Isabella’s own hand, if Henry remembered right, and was dated 3 August of the same year, or only a few short months before her death. He brought the page close to his eyes, squinting at the tiny Spanish words…and a single phrase leapt out at him as if the Catholic Monarch had herself directed his gaze to it: ‘ _una reliquia de San Lázaro_ ’ – a relic of St. Lazarus.

God in Heaven with his saints; the bastard had told them Cata was a leper.

He stared at the words, his gaze frozen in place as if he’d been bewitched by Medusa – but which mythical creature could be as hideous as this depraved, ingenious lie? For not only would the tale have served to explain everything from the sudden dismissal of the bulk of her household to her disappearance and seclusion, it would have come in particularly handy had his father succeeded in destroying her; who, after all, would question a leper’s death? Add a bout of ‘plague’ or ‘sweat’ to sweep away her remaining ladies and the entire situation could have been tidied away with no one the wiser – and the Satan-inspired story would been unwittingly accepted by all, even Henry himself, as God’s truth.

His breakfast now leaden in his belly, he placed the letter back in the folder and rose to his feet. Would Cata wish to read her mother’s last words, he wondered, or would the subject matter be too painful for her to face? His eyes strayed to the fire burning in the hearth; flame was a great purifier…but perhaps purity was overrated.

With a grim sigh he locked the folders away in his mother’s desk and knelt at the prie-dieu in the corner of the room. “Blessed Mary,” he prayed, his eyes squeezed shut as if by doing so he could block the enormity of his father’s sins from his mind, “please watch over Cata and her household and keep them safe, and bestow on me the wisdom to handle this matter in the best manner possible. Isabella, I give you my word in the presence of the Holy Virgin that I will protect and support your daughter and grandson, if he be such, for the rest of my life.”

He lifted his eyes to the silver crucifix mounted on the wall above him but before he could begin the Lord’s Prayer he felt a whisper of movement about him, as if a pair of soft, heavenly arms had wrapped themselves around his shoulders. _Is that you, Isabella?_ he silently asked, his eyes closing again. _Please, I beg you on bended knee: pray for your daughter and grandson with all your might. Help me rescue them; help me bring them to safety. I promise I will have masses said for your soul – for your son’s soul, as you must be in God’s arms already – but I beg you to do what you can to preserve Cata and her boy—_

A knock at the door interrupted him; he crossed himself and rose to his feet. “Yes?”

Norris stepped into the room with a small salver. “It’s almost seven o’clock, Your Grace,” he said at Henry’s nod. “The palace chamberlain sends word that Dr. de Victoria and his men departed for Westminster at six and that your own barge is ready. This letter has also just arrived for Your Grace from Bishop Ruthall.”

He took the note and tore it open. ‘Guards apprehended, detained,’ Ruthall had written. ‘No violence offered to Princess or ladies despite attempt. Boy safe and curious at window.’

With a shiver of relief he sent a silent prayer of thanks up to God and returned to the anteroom where his guards were waiting along with Tom More. “Good morning, Sir Thomas,” he said, mainly for the guards’ benefit. “We’ll leave for Westminster after I’ve spoken with my lady grandmother. Did you sleep well?”

“Not a wink, Your Grace. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of investigating the Princess’s finances last night, at least as much as I could on short notice.”

“Not at all; did you discover anything unusual?”

He snorted. “That, sir, is an understatement. Her dower lands are long gone – mainly deeded to Lord Surrey, although I don’t know if he realizes they were hers – and the jointure revenues have been redirected to the treasury since almost the day she was imprisoned.”

“And the dowry?”

“The cash was subsumed into the treasury per the normal course of events, but there was no mention of the jewels or household goods the Princess had with her at the time of her incarceration. I did find an oblique reference to Queen Isabella’s sapphires; your lord father wrote that they had gone to a ‘W’ in the margins of one page, but whether that was shorthand for a person or a place I couldn’t tell.”

“And those were her personal property,” he muttered. “The final brick in his wall of malice, I suppose.”

His grandmother’s rooms were located just across the corridor from his father’s study; it would have been a wonder if she hadn’t heard something that night. “Don’t announce me, Anthony,” he said to the guard at the door. “Has the Countess left her rooms this morning?”

“No, Your Grace; Bishop Fisher arrived just after six and a priest followed with the Host, but other than that there’s hasn’t been a peep.”

With a nod of thanks he slipped through the door and was greeted in the anteroom by his grandmother’s ladies, and if there was a damp eye in the room he’d eat his collar of estate with sauce. “Good morning,” he said as they leapt to their feet and dropped into deep curtseys. “I trust Her Grace is well?”

Lady Willoughby was the first to speak. “Physically, Highness, she is, but...”

He frowned at them. “But?”

“My Lady Richmond was given a decoction of lettuces last night, sir,” old Jane Clifford explained, “but its effects didn’t last as long as the physician anticipated. She was up by half past five and after dressing asked for Bishop Fisher to attend on her. About…I’d say five minutes after his arrival she cried out so loudly we could hear her through the the door. My Lady Morley attended on them and the Bishop said – what was it again, Alice?”

“That Her Grace was most grievously affected, sir, but otherwise well, and that she wished to adore the Host,” Lady Morley replied. “I sent a page to the Chapel Royal and one of the priests – Father Erskine, as I recall – arrived shortly afterward with a monstrance. They both remain in attendance on her.”

How furious she must be, he thought, if they’d needed the consecrated Body of Christ to calm her. “Then I won’t interrupt, as she surely desires the presence of God more than myself at the moment. Will you tell her, my lady, that I am to Durham House on the hour and will return to give her my love and support as soon as I can?”

“Certainly, sire.”

Tom had been joined by Will and Father Wolsey while he was in his grandmother’s rooms; Will opened his mouth to say something but Henry shook his head. “We’ll speak when we’re on the river,” he said, his eyes on the handful of courtiers lining the corridor. Their heads might be bent down to the rushes, he thought, but their ears were surely wide open.

As they descended to the ground floor he thought he spotted a familiar mop of blond hair near the door to the Watching Chamber. His pulse began to race, but as he grew closer he realized the young man’s jaw was too weak and his hair too ashen to be the object of his dreams. If he only knew his name, if he could only have Wolsey arrange…but perhaps it would be better not to. As it was Henry could pretend, but if the boy said no or, worse, only said yes because he felt he had to obey—

_You thrice-damned idiot._

The barge he’d requested was indeed waiting for them at the dock, banners sporting his badge as Prince of Wales fluttering above it in the light spring breeze. “Good morning, Your Grace,” the bargeman said with a dip of his head. “Master Arundell said you wished to be conveyed to Westminster Palace this morning.”

“If you would, George. I take it the cabin is fully enclosed?”

“Enclosed and soundproof, sir. Might I ask if you have permission from your lord father the King to…” But his voice trailed away as his gaze strayed to the collar; he blinked, straightened, and dropped Henry a far deeper bow than his first, a slow smile spreading across his face. “If Your _Grace_ would follow me.”

He returned the smile, touching a finger to his lips before turning to his lead guard. “Piers, it’s a fine morning. Perhaps you and your colleagues would prefer to sit outside?”

He took the hint. “We’d be pleased to, sir.”

The four of them made their way into the cabin and took seats facing each other on the narrow benches, Wolsey pulling the door shut behind them. “I’d better not grow any taller or I’ll never get through that door,” Henry said, his hat in his hands. “I could barely squeeze through as is.”

Compton rolled his eyes. “Sir, just have the damned thing rebuilt. You can do that, you know.”

“You’re right, I – Fuck!” he cried as his head slammed hard against the roof of the cabin. “I still don’t know why God saw fit to make me so tall anyway.”

“Great height can be found on both sides of Your Grace’s family,” Wolsey pointed out with his usual infuriating calmness. “They say King Edward towered over the court, and although your lord father reached a mere six feet tall his father and uncle were both closer to seven.”

“I know, I know, but still,” he muttered; the knock had come right on top of one of his old scars and he just knew the thing would begin to itch soon. “Incidentally, I discovered how Father pulled the wool over Ferdinand and Isabella’s eyes; he told them Cata had leprosy.”

Tom frowned. “There hasn’t been a new case in London in years, sir; even the ‘leper ladies’ of St. James suffer from the great pox. Why would he choose that disease?”

“Perhaps there are lepers in Wales,” Will suggested. “Could the Princess actually be infected? It would explain her imprisonment…but no, that would be a little too convenient, wouldn’t it?”

“Cata was as healthy that morning as she ever was, Will – and I suspect convenience was the only reason behind the story. Any other disease and they could ask for her to be sent home with her dowry but they’d never ask for a leper to come home, and not even the most courageous ambassador would ask to see her. Incidentally, I also discovered that my lady grandmother has had her suspicions for years. I told the whole sordid tale last night to Bishop Fisher after I spoke with de Victoria and he broke the news to her this morning. I can only wonder why she didn’t make Father send Cata back to Spain.”

Tom and Will shared a look. “Sir,” Tom began, “the rumours of your grandmother’s influence have become somewhat exaggerated over the years, I believe at your father’s behest.”

“The old man ever was one for scapegoats,” Will agreed. “Now she did get permission for you to study with Dr. Fisher but that was strategic; her real intent was to give you access to a member of the Privy Council and vice versa, and in any case she had your father over a barrel. He could hardly say the Saint of Rochester was a bad influence, could he?”

He couldn’t do anything but stare. “Fisher was…”

“The councillors were forbidden to speak with you; who were they supposed to ask if they wanted to know what they were getting? They had no idea you and Tom were in contact with each other, and they’d never listen to me or Charles or even Wolsey here – no offence intended, Father.”

“None taken, Sir William. For the record, I wouldn’t have agreed to talk to them had they been foolish enough to make the request. A confessor possesses far too much confidential information, matters that could never be discussed with the Council. The seal of the confessional must be preserved intact by any means possible, whether that be…”

Wolsey’s voice droned on as Henry’s gaze drifted to the Thames outside the window, his eyelids drooping. They’d by then long passed Syon Abbey, that magnificent edifice of stone and glass, pomp and privilege, prayer and work, where Christ surely heard every prayer of the monks…the prayers of the…

A cough awoke him with a start. “Are-are we at Westminster yet, Father?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“We’re just abeam Chelsea, sir,” Wolsey said.

He peered out the window, stretching as best he could in the cramped cabin. “Lord Sandys’s wheat is coming in early. How’s the season at Gobions, Tom? Were your father’s lands affected by the Lea flood?”

His face turned beet red. “Actually, sir…”

But Henry already knew what he was about to say. “God’s blood; the bastard took the manor, didn’t he? Do you know if he deeded it to anyone else? Did he seize any of his other lands?”

“Just More Hall, but it was the jewel of his holdings – and from what I understand it’s still held by the Crown.”

“Not any longer it isn’t. Father,” he said, turning to Wolsey, “remind me to have a transfer drawn up tonight returning the manor of More Hall at Gobions in Hertfordshire to John More. Perhaps I can’t return every estate my father seized but I can make sure this one goes back to its rightful owner. I’m just sorry he chose to take it, Tom; was it after you spoke against the Attainder Act at the Oxford Parliament?”

“It was, sir, and thank you; my father will be greatly relieved. I still castigate myself for the speech but at the same time neither Father nor I could see what else I could have done. The Act contravenes the common law of the realm, plain and simple.”

“And it’s not the only one that does, is it?” he muttered. “I’ll have to take a close look at every law passed in the last twenty years.”

The steward of Westminster Palace, Brian Tuke, was waiting for them near the Water Gate with Sergeant Major Keyes; Henry accepted their bows with a placid smile as he stepped ashore. “Master Tuke, good morning. I trust the physicians have arrived?”

“They have, Your Grace,” he replied, his bony nose twitching with curiosity as he rose from his bow, “although neither they nor the good sergeant major here are willing to tell me why.”

“All in good time. Is Dr. de Victoria ready to go, Sergeant Major?”

He shook his head. “In about twenty minutes, he said, sir. He’s just off roundin’ up some maids to act as nurses.”

Tuke gestured toward the palace. “If Your Grace would be so kind as to accept my hospitality while—” But he suddenly froze, his eyes fixed on More’s face. “Tom, what are you doing here? I can’t – Sir,” he said, returning his gaze to Henry, “I cannot allow an exile from court into the palace, no matter who he is. If your lord father the King were to discover I permitted Master More to cross the threshold…”

“You have nothing to fear,” Henry assured him in his most stately tones. “The King knows and is more than content. If you would be so kind as to show us to your office.”

Naturally Tuke didn’t believe him; his eyes were cold and wary and beads of sweat were forming on his upper lip. But submission to royal command ran through the man’s veins as surely as it did through that of every court official, and after only a moment’s hesitation he dipped his head and gestured toward the door. “If Your Grace and your companions would follow me.”

He led them through the Exchequer’s building and up a flight of stairs to a tiny room under the eaves filled to overflowing with leather folders. “Your Grace,” he said as Wolsey shut the door behind them, “I must plead with you. If your father finds out that I let Tom in here…”

Henry didn’t say a word; he only held up the hand bearing his father’s signet ring in front of the steward’s face.

The reaction was immediate. “Oh, praise God!” Tuke cried as he dropped to his knees and kissed the ring. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I had no idea! I noticed the Collar of Esses but I simply assumed your father had raised you to a position on Council—”

“Your apology is accepted,” he said, gently disengaging his hand and motioning for the steward to rise as Compton turned away and coughed to hide a snort of laughter. “You couldn’t have known. For the record, Tom’s – or Sir Thomas’s, I should say – sentence of exile is null and void. Unfortunately we’re facing a matter of some urgency this morning with respect to the residents of Durham House. I trust I can count on your help?”

“Of course I’d be honoured to render any assistance necessary, except that…sir, I was under the impression that the servants left Durham House some time ago.”

“Servants?” Tom asked, sharing a puzzled look with Henry. “What’s this about servants, Brian?”

“Not anything of importance,” he said, “or at least I assume not. It was merely a mundane transaction, the kind we handle fairly often.”

“Allow me to be the judge of that,” Henry said. “Please, tell me all you know.”

“It started not long before Advent, sir, five or six years ago,” he began. “Dr. Stilltoe asked us to provide food and drink to the servants who kept his palace in repair while he was in the North. From what he said the previous bishop had leased the outbuildings, including the kitchens, to the King so he wasn’t able to feed them himself.”

“Is it common for the palace to provide meals to all who ask?” Henry asked.

“Only to the episcopal palaces, sir. They can be assured that the fasting rules will be strictly adhered to, whereas the local inns…well, they often supply food to pregnant women, the sick, and the like.”

And to men willing to pay a pretty penny under the table for meat on fast days, Henry added silently. “Continue.”

“There’s not much more; every day my servants would carry pails of food – pottage, gruel, small beer, the usual fare – to the gates of Durham House and bring back the empty containers from the previous day. Bishop Stilltoe had asked us to send one meal a day but I sent enough for two, with extra on feast days, of course. Perhaps it was poor stewardship but it’s simply unchristian to let servants go hungry and the cost was insignificant.”

“How many men are you feeding, Master Tuke?” Wolsey asked.

“The number changed over the years, Father. At the beginning the good bishop had twelve, then a year later – that was the year plague swept through Westminster, you’ll remember – the number went down to seven, and in the last year five.”

Five servants’ rations for six people; hardly a surfeit, Henry thought, but not so little as to starve the ladies, let alone render them as emaciated as Ruthall’s man had claimed. “And you send the food every morning?”

“I did, sir, but I’m afraid I might have inadvertently misled you; the contract is no longer in force, having been cancelled at Bishop Stilltoe’s death in November. A note came from one of His Grace’s associates the next day stating that the building had been cleared and the servants dismissed.” His brows knit. “Is that not the case, sir?”

“It is most certainly not. Might I ask, was the note from Richard Empson?”

Tuke all but shuddered. “Your Grace has that correct.”

But the transaction made no sense at all. Father had wanted them dead; he’d gone so far as to profess himself ‘sore affected’ by how long it was taking to send them off. Why, then, had he arranged for food to be delivered? “If you were going to starve someone to death,” he said to Tom, “wouldn’t you go to the effort of actually starving them?”

“Your Grace,” Wolsey said, “it may be that Bishop Stilltoe arranged for the meals to be sent on his own initiative. Perhaps your lord father took the deaths from disease to have been caused by his actions and was perplexed by the failure of the remaining ladies to die.”

“And when Stilltoe died and Empson discovered his saintly duplicity,” Will said, his voice thick with irony, “he cancelled the contract and stopped feeding them.”

“Which raises the question: what have they been eating for the last five months?” Tom asked.

All through the conversation Brian Tuke had been darting confused looks at all four of them. “Your Grace, is there an issue with the servants?”

“Just that there have never been servants at Durham House,” he replied. “You were in truth providing sustenance to the Dowager Princess of Wales and her household.”

“I was…I couldn’t have…My God!” he babbled, his face blanching. “I fed a princess rabbit stew and maslin bread? And oat gruel? Pottage, small…no, I cannot believe…”

More interrupted him with a touch of his hand. “You certainly did, Brian, and by doing so you preserved her life. She wasn’t being fed by anyone else.”

“Sir Thomas is right, Master Tuke,” Henry said. “You might not have known you were doing God’s holy work by sending extra food but you surely were, and I won’t fail to remember that. Now,” he said, leading them all back into the corridor, “we are in dire need of your help. We’ll need every blanket in the palace brought down, heating stones readied, one of the halls cleaned and supplied with the softest beds, maids and chamberers assembled – Dr. de Victoria likely has much of it well in hand but I’m sure he’d appreciate your help.”

They made their way back to the Outer Court, where they were joined by the physician himself. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, dropping him a stately bow as the bells of the Westminster churches called the faithful of the town to Mass. “I and my men are ready to depart on your command.”

He looked behind the physician, seeing horses in the courtyard and barges waiting at the pier but only a single cart. “Are we only taking enough food and drink for the day, Doctor?” he asked.

“Not even that, sir. Sergeant Major Keyes reports that the building is in extremely poor repair, with much of the roof missing and some rooms exposed to the elements; as such I think it best to move the ladies as quickly as possible lest the floor collapse under our weight. I am bringing broth – and stretchers and blankets, of course – but the cart is primarily for the maids. The barges will follow in an hour, which will give us time to prepare the ladies to be moved.”

“Do you still want me to go with you, sir?” Will asked. “I’d be happy to help but I don’t know what good I’d be, and if the house is falling down you don’t need any extra weight on those floorboards.”

“I must concur, Your Grace,” de Victoria added. “In fact, sir, I recommend that only the necessary priests, physicians, and maids enter the building. You must not risk yourself—”

But at that Henry demurred. “If it’s safe enough for you, Doctor, it’s safe enough for me – although I do see the wisdom in bringing in as few men as possible. Will, you’ve already done your part to save Cata and her ladies by reminding me to disarm the guards. Unless you have something to bring before the Council you might as well leave for Eltham as soon as you can with my thanks. Master Tuke, I trust the fourteen-man barge is available?”

“Unless the good doctor has commandeered it, sir, I can have it ready within the hour.”

He rested a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Let Lady Guildford break the news to Elizabeth and Mary. They’ll take it better from her than from some handsome young knight they might feel the need to impress.”

Will grinned. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll try not to dazzle them too much.”

The grooms brought out their horses as Compton and Tuke took their leave. “It’s passing strange,” he said to More and de Victoria. “Will’s convinced he’s the ugliest man in Christendom and yet he still has to fight off the women with a stick.”

“Knightly virtues are more important to ladies than clear skin, sir,” the doctor replied. “And of course there are other factors – generally ones no man understands but every woman instinctively knows.”

They swung themselves up into the saddle and followed the cart out the North Gate, the other riders following; as they made their way up through the deserted streets he motioned for de Victoria to bring his horse alongside his own. “I’ve learned something since our meeting last night,” he said in Spanish. “It appears that Brian Tuke used to send food to Durham House at Bishop Stilltoe’s orders. It’s possible the guards took it for themselves but it was desperately poor fare: rabbit stew, pottage, maslin…things the average town-bred man would turn up his nose at. Frankly, I’m surprised it kept them alive.”

But De Victoria shook his head at that. “If such food is fresh, sir, it can be healthier than the pastries and roast game so beloved by the upper classes. No man or woman has ever starved on a diet of rabbit stew and pea bread.” He looked around them. “I take it the meals are no longer delivered?”

“Not since Stilltoe died. I don’t know what they’ve been living on since November.”

“The guards may supply them with something, sir, of course, but otherwise…” He shrugged. “It might be best not to inquire too closely.”

He shot a look at the physician, but de Victoria didn’t elaborate.

They rode past York Place and turned right at Charing Cross, joining the Strand. He’d ridden past Durham House in his father’s train a dozen times or more since 1503; if anyone had told him…well, in truth he might have believed them, but he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what to do with the information. It was truly wonderful how well the mind could concentrate with near-unlimited resources behind it.

The courtyard of Durham House was spacious if dilapidated; Henry looked up at the windows of the house once he’d dismounted but he couldn’t see…but no: something was moving behind one of them. “Tom,” he said, raising a hand in greeting, “is that Cata, can you tell?”

More craned his neck. “María de Salinas, I think; whoever she is, she has her ear pressed to the glass. She seems—” The blood drained from his face. “My God, Harry; her cheeks are sunken in – she’s a walking skeleton!”

“As is to be expected, Sir Thomas,” de Victoria said as he handed his reins to a guard. “Did you think she would simply be a touch thin after five months without proper food? Starvation is not pretty; the Christian slaves at Málaga—”

“Your Grace!” Father Wolsey cried. “A barge!”

He turned toward the river where a long shape was indeed pulling up at the boat steps. “I thought you’d said they weren’t coming for at least an hour, Doctor.”

“Actually, sir,” More said, “it appears to be flying your lady grandmother’s colours.”

“My grandmother? Oh, for…”

By the time he’d made it around the overgrown kitchen garden she had alighted and was making her way up the stairs to the courtyard with Bishop Fisher’s help. “My lady,” he asked, “what are you doing here?”

She dropped him a shallow curtsey. “And good morning to you, Your Grace,” she replied. “Most well, thank you. And how are you, sir?”

“Tired but well, as I’m sure you already know. What possessed you to follow me to Westminster?”

Her chin rose. “I am here to attend on the Princess of Wales.”

“The Princess…Grandmother, I won’t have you harming Cata. If you can’t control yourself…”

“Really, Henry; you’ve always thought far too little of me. Need I remind you that I have an interest in this matter?”

Of course she did, but he still wished that she had asked him – but when had she ever asked permission from anyone for anything? “Then shall we, Madam?”

Thomas Ruthall was waiting for them near the main doors, stole and pyx in hand. “I welcome Your Graces to Durham House – or what’s left of it,” he said. “They’ve torn apart the kitchens and stables and what’s left of the roof’s likely to blow off in the next storm; I can only imagine the damage inside.”

As if that mattered at a moment like this. “Was Clement able to tell you anything more about the Princess?”

Keyes spoke up. “Your Grace, when we got here the guards fought back and a couple tried to make their way into the house. Clement held ‘em back until we could deal with the rest of the lot but he took a fairly deep cut or two so we sent him back to Westminster to be patched up. I was just checking on him when your barge arrived.”

His grandmother broke in. “Henry, Katherine surely knows we’re here and she must be on pins and needles waiting for us.”

“Of course, madam.” His heart racing, he allowed Ruthall and Keyes to open the doors and stepped across the threshold, his grandmother on his arm and a prayer to the Virgin in his heart.

Catalina de Montoya had been Cata’s Mistress of the Maids; his lady mother, always gracious, had euphemistically called her a ‘sturdy woman’. At the moment, though, she stood in front of them a shadow of her former self. Her face chap-fallen, folds of sagging, blotchy skin showing through the ragged sleeves of her threadbare gown, she searched Henry’s face as blind terror competed with overwhelming hope in her clouded Basque eyes. She didn’t bow or curtsey, but in fairness she didn’t seem capable of either. “Doña Catalina…” he began.

She said only two words: “¿Está muerto?”

“Sí, Señora. Tiene…”

But before he could get out another word her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed in a heap.

Henry would have cried out for help but two of the physicians were already lifting her out of the way, while another lady – María de Salinas, as Tom had said earlier – was making her way slowly down the main staircase, both hands grasping the railing as if her life depended on it. “Your Grace,” she said in Spanish at the foot of the stairs, dropping an excruciating curtsey as he drew near, “might I welcome you to Durham House? The Princess awaits you upstairs in the main sitting room. I must warn you: she cannot stand for long, and please don’t expect her to bend the knee.”

He felt frozen in place. Tom hadn’t spoken wrong when he’d called her a walking skeleton; her rough skin was stretched so thinly over her bones he swore he could see into her soul, and her hair, once thick and glossy black, was wispy, louse-ridden, and greying – and if he remembered right she was only a year older than him. “Doña María, I thank you,” he finally got out as his grandmother clutched at his arm. “Of course I won’t expect anything from her; we’re here to bring her and all of you to safety. Doctor, could one of your men…”

“Yes, sir,” de Victoria said. “Samson, Babham: look to the lady.”

“But I must show Your Grace upstairs,” she said, her gaze wandering aimlessly. “You must be chaperoned.”

Henry suddenly realized she was blind. “My lady grandmother is here with me, madam, and is more than willing to chaperone us. Is the Princess alone?”

“Canon Hobbes is…or was…in attendance. The door is at the top…” But she stopped and pressed a hand to her chest.

“The top of the stairs?”

She nodded.

“Then we won’t keep her waiting.” He turned back to Ruthall. “I’d appreciate if you would stay with Señora de Montoya in case she has urgent need of a priest. You’ve brought the Host, I see.”

“After what Clement told me, sir, I thought it best to come fully prepared.”

He nodded his thanks and turned to Tom More, who had ignored Keyes’s warning and followed them indoors. “I’d appreciate if you could keep an eye out for the boy, Tom; I don’t want him to panic and run away. Bishop Fisher, Father Wolsey, Dr. de Victoria: if you’d attend.”

They climbed the rickety staircase up to the gallery, maids trailing them with blankets and pillows, and stopped in front of the doors María had mentioned. “Do any of you know this Hobbes, by any chance?” he asked, an eye on the broken clerestory windows above them.

“I believe I do,” Fisher said. “Poor man. Canon of Exeter Cathedral, began to lose his mind and wander. Archbishop Warham said he’d found him a nice secure monastery to spend his waning years.”

He blew out an angry breath; even the priest was a victim. “Dr. de Victoria, if you’d…”

But a motion of his grandmother’s hand stilled his tongue. “Forgive me, Henry,” she said, “but I ask that you allow me to be the first to attend on Her Highness. Perhaps it would be best if she’s given a moment before she has to face you, although I doubt she would shrink back; you do favour the Woodville side of the family.”

Their eyes met; was she actually pleading with him? “Very well, Madam; I’ll defer to your wisdom – as long as you take Father Wolsey and Dr. de Victoria with you, and the maids as well.” Which, he prayed, should prevent any outburst.

“Of course.”

He and Fisher watched them leave. “It never entered my mind that she might be afraid of me,” Henry said once the door had closed behind them. “Hate me, yes, but…”

“I’m certain Lady Richmond was only being careful, sir,” he said. “Sir, I must ask you to accept my apologies; I begged Her Grace to remain at Richmond Palace but she wouldn’t listen.”

Had he not been so heart-sick he would have laughed. “I couldn’t have stopped her with a battalion of soldiers; I’m certainly not prepared to blame you for what I—”

A sudden movement in the shadows caught his eye; fearing a rat, Henry stepped forward, Fisher close behind him – but then the ‘rat’ coughed.

He dropped to his knees and held out a hand to the small shape hiding just behind a pillar. “It’s all right, little one,” he said in Spanish. “I won’t hurt you.”

A pair of pale eyes shone out. “Who are you?”

“My name is…Don Enrique,” he replied. “I and my knights and servants are here to take you to a place of safety. And behind me is a bishop of Holy Church; his name is John Fisher.”

Inch by inch the boy emerged, his tattered shirt fluttering in the chill draft whipping through the corridor; with relief Henry saw that although he was pallid and thin he was nowhere near as emaciated as Cata’s ladies had been. “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

He dropped a very proper bow. “Don Juan de Montoya, sir.”

But of course he wasn’t.

For an instant Henry could have sworn he was looking at his baby brother Edmund, the one who’d died in his arms all those years ago…but no, Edmund hadn’t possessed Cata’s little chin or her heavy-lidded clear blue eyes. Blinking away the tears that were suddenly welling up, Henry traced a cross into the air as Fisher helpfully murmured a prayer behind him. “Don Juan,” he said, “I hereby deputize you in the most Christian duty of protecting your lady mother and aunts. Do you accept this sacred charge?”

“I do, Don Enrique,” he replied, puffing his narrow chest out – but then he frowned. “I thought the bad men were all gone.”

“You mean the guards? One of my priests saw you watching the battle, you know. He thought you were brave not to run away. Were they very bad?”

The boy nodded. “They used to say things about Tía Catalina in English – I mean the Princess. They were going to hurt her after the King was dead!”

He willed himself not to react; behind him he heard Fisher bite down on a gasp. “You could hear them through the windows?” he said once he’d got his voice back under control.

“Mamá said not to listen, but I would get up in the night when I was hungry—” His face fell. “She said I’m not supposed to say that because I get most of the food, but I was still hungry. That’s the truth, and Tía Isabel said I must never lie.”

Bishop Fisher moved forward. “Would you like to come with me and see your Mamá, Don Juan?” he said in English. “She’s downstairs with priests and physicians and all kinds of brave knights.”

His face lit up; he ran toward the bishop but suddenly stopped in his tracks, his eyes huge and pleading. “Might I go downstairs, Don Enrique?”

He placed a hand on Juan’s shoulder – Lord, he was thin! “You certainly may, but only if you promise to protect and serve your Mamá and your aunts by praying for them as hard as you can. Do you know your Pater Noster?”

“My Pater Noster and my Ave Maria, sir, yes; Tía Catalina makes me repeat them every day while she combs my hair. She says I need to know them because one day a great king will arrive and he’ll ask me to say them.”

“A great king—” he began, but he had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could go on; she’d surely meant Jesus, not him. “Your aunt is a very wise woman, Don Juan. Your Grace?”

Fisher led the boy away, Juan almost hopping down the stairs in his excitement. Henry could only marvel at the resilience of children – but then again, most of his councillors likely thought the same of him. If they only knew…

He rose to his feet and was brushing shreds of disintegrating bulrush off his knees when the maids slipped out of the room and down the stairs, the second one leaving the door ajar behind her. He tiptoed up, moving as silently as he could through the bedraggled tinder-dry rushes, and peeked through the crack.

Cata, wizened and whisper-thin, was laying covered in blankets on an old oaken settle, her head gently resting on his grandmother’s lap as the older woman gently stroked what little was left of her lovely red hair. “I’m so sorry,” Grandmother was murmuring. “Forgive me, Princess, I’m so very sorry…Jesus protect you, Princess…”

If he lived a hundred years nothing would ever top the shock he felt at that moment. For his grandmother to _apologize_ …he would never have believed it if he hadn’t heard it with his own ears.

A twig snapped under his foot; the noise alerted Wolsey, who rose from where he’d been kneeling beside the settle. “We’ve reached her in time, sir,” he whispered through the doorway. “I’ve given her Extreme Unction as a precaution but de Victoria believes she has an excellent chance of recovery. The maids have gone down for broth. Have you seen the priest? Apparently he’s gone wandering.”

“No, but I did meet the boy – Juan. He seems healthy as a horse if entirely too thin. Lina de Montoya’s given him her surname, but…well, there’s no question.”

Wolsey opened his mouth to reply, but their voices must have been louder than they thought. “Quique,” Cata suddenly cried in Spanish, her voice as weak as a newborn kitten, “is that you?”

He slipped through the door and past Wolsey, kneeling down beside her and enfolding one of her skeletal hands in his. She seemed in slightly better shape than María – her eyes tracked, at least – but her lips were lined with deep, painful-looking cracks and her skin was parchment-thin, blue veins spidering over her strangely hairy face. “I’d ask you how you are, my dear,” he replied, “but…I don’t know how I can ever make this up to you.”

She shook her head. “No, don’t…is he truly dead?”

He held his hand up so she could see the signet ring. “Last night at eleven.” He raised his gaze to his grandmother’s face, unwilling to insult his father in front of her even in a language she didn’t understand—

She was crying.

Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, grandmother of the King, the strongest woman Henry and perhaps the world had ever known, was crying.

He’d never seen her shed a tear before. A stoic tower of strength to all she loved, Grandmother had borne every blow she’d faced in life with dry eyes raised to God in praise and adoration. Even last night, even at the death of the son for whom she’d risked everything to raise to the throne, she’d only let out one great anguished howl; seconds later she’d resumed her reserved, regal demeanour. That she would cry now…

“Madam – grandmother,” he said, placing a hand on hers, “please come away from this. Father Wolsey, would you be so kind as to see Her Grace safely downstairs?”

Dr. de Victoria’s voice came from behind him. “Allow me to raise the Princess’s head, Madam.”

But Henry shook his head. “No: let me.”

He lifted Cata, cradling her as Wolsey helped his sobbing grandmother to her feet and gently led her out. “I don’t know why I’m so weak,” Cata whispered into his shoulder. “I walked here from our bedchamber and yesterday I was strong enough to catch three fine rats.”

Which explained with chilling clarity what they had been eating.

De Victoria slipped a pair of thick pillows under Cata’s head, gesturing for a shocked Henry to lay her back down. “You are weak, Highness,” the doctor said, “because God knows you no longer need tax your strength – and you need never lay your eyes on a rodent again.”

Henry pulled the blankets up to her neck. “Is it truly safe to move her—”

But the house suddenly shifted under their feet, proving Keyes’s earlier point; the doctor’s gaze rose to the crumbling ceiling where a small piece of plaster had detached itself and was hanging over them literally by a hair. “With your permission, sir, we will move the ladies as soon as the barges arrive.”

Cata suddenly clutched at de Victoria’s sleeve. “Bella!” she cried. “You have to find her, Fernando! She’s upstairs.”

“Doña Isabel, Highness? Is she too ill to rise, or…”

She shook her head. “She’s hiding in the attics. She knows you; would you coax her out?”

He glanced at Henry, nodding at his signal. “Of course.”

Henry retook her hand after de Victoria had left. “Saints above, Cata,” he said, “I would have given my life ten times over to spare you this.”

“No, Quique – forgive me; you are now King so I must call you Highness. But you must not speak like that. I – I don’t know how to tell you…”

“You don’t need to.”

“But I can’t marry you…”

“I know, Cata,” he whispered in her ear. “He told me on his deathbed, and I’ve seen Juan. He’s a handsome young man; you must be so proud of him.”

She smiled bravely. “Doña Lina has agreed to admit a liaison with your father, but it wasn’t supposed to be this way…he was supposed to be – to be yours…”

He wrapped his arms around her, shushing her gently even though her mewling sobs were barely loud enough to be heard. “Never fear,” he murmured softly, “I’ve got you. Nothing will harm you or Juan from this moment on. I give you my word, you’re both safe.”

One of the maids returned with a double-handed bowl full to the brim with broth. “Bring it here,” he said, gesturing to the floor beside him. “I’ll feed the Princess myself. Thank you; if you’d wait outside.”

Her eyes boggled but she still obeyed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“But a king should not stoop to…” Cata began as the door closed.

“True,” he interrupted her, bringing the spoon up to her lips, “but a brother may. Now drink up.”

Spoonful by spoonful he got about a third of the pale broth into her before she had to stop. “My stomach…”

“It’s all right,” he crooned. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“But I don’t want to waste…” And she broke down into tears again.

He cradled her again, this time letting her cry herself out; as he slowly rocked her to sleep his mind went back to the last time he’d seen her.

It had been one of those sunny autumn mornings that made winter seem a distant dream. As a betrothed couple they’d been permitted to spend as much time as they wished together, so they’d chosen to skip Dr. Arundel’s lesson on St. Ursula that morning and instead take a walk in Richmond Great Park – chaperoned, of course, by her _duenna_ and ladies. Cata had been the picture of beauty, grace, and haughty Spanish dignity, her headdress fluttering in the gentle breeze as they shared a smile over the antics of the colts out for their daily exercise.

They’d both enjoyed that short hour of innocent joy but in retrospect it had been nothing more than a respite from a situation that was growing more poisonous as the days went by. His father was drinking more every day, the beatings were becoming more frequent, and he and Cata were both beginning to realize that he would never be the husband she deserved; his first kiss had made that clear. But this? If he’d only known what his father had been capable of…no, even then he couldn’t have lifted a finger to stop him. A King is master of his house as much as of his realm; he might not strictly have the right to abuse his ward as his father had Cata, but there was little if anything that could be done if he did.

And now Henry would have to pick up the pieces – if they were even still there to be put together. For a princess to worry about wasting broth…

Dr. Linacre’s voice came from behind him. “The barges from Westminster have arrived, Your Grace; if it’s convenient we’d like to take the Princess downstairs now.”

“Very well,” he said, rising to his feet and turning to the doctor, who was accompanied by a brace of guards. “I’ll carry her down myself.”

His lips pursed. “Actually, sir, Dr. de Victoria is insistent the Princess be taken out on a litter. It would be gentler on her joints, he says, if she were moved flat.”

He opened his mouth again but stopped himself before he could protest: his desire to feel useful had to come second to Cata’s needs. “Of course, Doctor. I’ll get out of your way.”

Wolsey was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. “What have you heard of the others, Father?” he asked, drawing him aside.

The priest’s face was grim. “Dr. Samson is deeply concerned by Señora de Montoya’s condition, sir; Dr. Ruthall’s given her Extreme Unction. María de Salinas will live but her eyesight…” and he shook his head. “They’ve finally coaxed Isabel de Vargas downstairs but she refuses to leave Dr. de Victoria’s side. The canon was found in the attics as well; he’s almost as badly off as Señora de Montoya except he doesn’t know it. Sir Thomas is caring for him at the moment; he’s a good man in a crisis.”

“And the boy?”

“In the best shape of them all. Incidentally, I’ve baptized him. The Salinas girl apparently did it at his birth but without clean water the matter is doubtful.”

Just then de Victoria joined them, a terrified wisp of a girl glued to his arm. “Your Grace, may I present Isabel de Vargas.”

She tried to curtsey but lost her footing and almost fell; he and Wolsey had to help her back to her feet. “Doña Isabel, don’t distress yourself,” he said. “Are you well? Should we bring a stretcher?”

But she didn’t answer him. “He’s really dead,” she murmured, her black eyes enormous in her head. “I didn’t think this day would ever come. You have clearly been sent to us by God, sir. You do know about…”

“About Juan? Rest assured, Doña Isabel, that I am aware that Lina’s child,” and with that he raised an eyebrow, “is my brother, and as such I intend to fully acknowledge him.”

She clung to his hand. “Sir, please don’t blame her; she didn’t choose…”

“Of course not,” he reassured her. “I would never judge any woman in her position. In fact, I’m highly impressed with how Juan’s mother and his aunts have handled this disaster with grace and ingenuity.”

“I…” She looked away, her face flushing a brilliant red. “I hid because Juan told me there’d been a fight and I didn’t know if they’d send in reinforcements. María thought she heard strange voices outside the window. It must seem foolish but Juan always listened to the guards…I shouldn’t have taught him English…” and she began to cry.

“There now, Bella,” de Victoria crooned as he gathered her in his arms again. “If you’ll permit me, Your Grace, I’d like to take her to the barge before she collapses.”

“Of course, Doctor. We’ll meet again at Westminster.”

He followed them into the courtyard to find Juan standing near the kitchen garden under Ruthall’s watchful gaze, his eyes wide with wonder; it was only then that Henry realized the boy had likely never been outside before. “The air’s nasty-smelling out here, isn’t it?” he asked as he crouched down beside him. “It’s much nicer at Westminster.”

Juan frowned at him. “What’s Westminster, Don Enrique?”

He held out his arms. “May I?” At his nod he scooped Juan up and carried him over to the dock. “Do you see that building over there with the clock tower peeking over the walls?” he said, pointing south along the river’s edge. “That’s Westminster Palace.”

“But that’s where Tía Isabel says the King lives!” he cried, his blue eyes suddenly wild with fear. “We can’t go there – he’ll hurt us!”

Heaven help them both. “I give you my word the old King is dead, Don Juan,” he said in a soothing voice. “My solemn word before God.”

He froze, his gaze still fixed on the palace. “Dead? You swear?”

“I do. In fact, I witnessed his death with my own eyes, and just before he died he made many solemn confessions and apologized for all the bad things he did, including treating your Mamá and aunts so badly. We can only pray God forgives him.”

“God can forgive anyone, Don Juan,” a voice came from behind them. “He is infinitely good and hopes that every one of us will choose to follow His way; don’t forget that.”

“Sir Thomas is right,” he said, giving Tom a nod of thanks before returning to Juan. “What else did your mamá say about the King?”

“That he was a bad man,” he said in a small voice, “and that he was my papá. I’m a bastard.”

Which was true as far as it went, but what a thing to teach such a small child! “And that is nothing you need ever feel shame over,” he told him. “Would you like to know a secret?”

“Sir, are you sure?” Tom murmured.

“He might as well know now,” he whispered back.

By then the boy’s eyes were shining. “What is it, Don Enrique? Are you a bastard too?”

“No,” he replied, smiling, “but I am your brother. You and I have the same father but different mothers.”

Juan stared at him in shock, then without warning threw his arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. He returned the embrace, hot tears stinging his eyes, until a cough interrupted them. “If Your Grace would be so kind as to pardon us,” Dr. Linacre said from behind them.

“Of course.” He and Tom stepped aside to allow Cata’s and Doña Catalina’s stretchers to be carried aboard the waiting barge. “Would you like to go with your mother and aunt?” he asked Juan. “They could surely use your prayers.”

“Are you coming to Westminster too?”

“I am, but I have to reward my knights first.” He knelt down, placing the boy on the ground and giving him a final hug. “Go with Bishop Ruthall, brother; I’ll see you soon – and remember to pray for your mother as hard as you can.”

“I will.”

They watched as the barge pulled away. “I have a brother,” he said to Tom. “He looks just like Edmund.”

“Sir…”

“Harry when we’re alone, Tom; I don’t think I can stand being ‘Sir’ to everyone.”

“Harry then. I…just be careful. Royal bastards have been known to covet the throne.”

He flicked a flea off his sleeve. “I’m not a fool, Tom – or perhaps I am and simply don’t care. How’s the priest?”

“Canon Hobbes? It took three maids and Bishop Ruthall’s prayers to convince him to board the barge. He was convinced the Princess was being taken to the Tower.”

“I’m sure they’ve discussed the possibility in his presence a hundred times.” He ran a hand over his face, his gaze rising to the turret windows soaring high above the shoreline. “I’ve spent years planning for this day, Tom; long years of waiting and watching and making dozens of lists in my head. I’d marry Cata and sire sons if God allowed, send explorers and settlers to the New Found Land, rebuild the fortifications of Calais, found a university, even sign a treaty with France. God knows I have enough money for all of it. But I didn’t allow myself to consider the possibility that my father’s malice could sour the pot. Perhaps I simply couldn’t face how awful things really were.” A blur of motion at the side of the turret caught his attention. “What’s going on up there?” he asked. “I thought the building was being cleared.”

Tom peered up, scowling as he shielded his eyes from the sun. “There’s a bucket hanging from the window, and a large rat’s trying to climb down the rope to get into it.”

He shuddered. “That’s what they were eating, Tom: rats. And they must have used the bucket to bring up river water to drink and wash with. Rats and river water: can you even imagine?”

“Doña María told me they used to lower the bucket at night and the guard Dr. Ruthall mentioned, the boy Clement, would leave them boiled eggs or pieces of cheese whenever he could manage to outwit his fellow guards. They always gave the extra food to the boy, of course.”

“Which is why he’s the only one not close to death. Keyes said Clement risked his life today to protect Cata; I’ll have to find him a good preferment but the rest of the lot will have to go to trial, if I can find something to charge them with. It wasn’t treason when they obeyed my father.”

“It wasn’t,” Tom agreed, “but it was treason when they disobeyed you.”

“And I can’t be seen as weak.” He snorted a laugh. “The guards, that bastard Empson: some man of peace I’m turning out to be.”

They made their way back to where Wolsey and Fisher were waiting for them by the main entry to the house. “Is my lady grandmother not with you?” he asked the bishop as a guard brought over his horse.

“Her Grace returned to Richmond with Dr. Babham some time ago, sir; she was finding the situation difficult and wished to return to the palace to pray. She did however ask me to speak to Your Grace.” He waited for the guard to leave, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “She met the boy and in fact stood at his baptism as godmother. She begs you to recognize him as your brother.”

“You’re returning to her tonight?”

“After the Council meeting, yes.”

“Then you may assure her that I’ve already acknowledged him privately and intend to make the matter public as soon as I can.” He swung up into the saddle and turned towards Tom. “No doubt we’ll see Ruthall again at Westminster this afternoon. I’d like to take a few hours first to—”

But at that moment he caught sight of a mass of people clustered in the Strand just outside the broad iron gate. How had they known…but of course they couldn’t have helped but notice the commotion on their way home from Mass. How much had they seen, he wondered: did they know Cata had been taken out? Had they known she’d been imprisoned here?

That hardly mattered, he told himself; whether he liked it or not, they were here for him.

“Harry,” More said, his voice low, “there’s a second barge waiting at the dock…”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I have to do this.”

He rode toward the gate, moving forward until nothing separated him from the crowd – and there were hundreds of them, he could now see – but an inch’s breadth of rusty wrought iron. They didn’t know him from Adam, of course; to them he was the silent boy who rode meekly behind his father, never lifting his eyes. How worried and afraid they must be that he would prove a copy of his father or the Usurper…or worse than either, if that was possible.

He raised a hand to quell their murmurs. “People of Westminster!” he cried in his most authoritative voice. “I thank you for greeting me on this, my first visit to your fair city as King of England!”

The response was immediate; as one the crowd gasped, then dropped to their knees. A voice came from the rear: “God save the King!”

“And God save the English people!” he shouted back as they roared their approval. “Today begins a new era of hope, faith, and strength. I vow to you in the presence of St. George and St. Edward that I will defend and protect this realm from its enemies and discharge my duties firmly, fairly, and according to the laws of God and of England. But I ask for your prayers. Return to your churches and pray for me with all your hearts. Beseech the Holy Virgin to spread her sheltering hand over me – over all of us.”

“God bless you, Your Grace!” a woman cried, “and God bless Princess Katherine!”

He smiled down at her. “Well thought, madam; Her Highness will indeed need your prayers, as will my other sisters, the Queen of Scots and the Princesses Elizabeth and Mary, whom I would ask you to pray for as well.” He pursed his lips, knowing full well how badly his next request would stink in their noses. “I would also ask all of you to find it in your hearts to pray, if you can, for the soul of my lord father the late King.”

They grumbled, no surprise there, but the most fitting epitaph came from an ancient man standing at the back of the crowd. “The fucker’s dead, is he?”

He sought out the man’s face and grinned, showing the crowd his signet ring. “He surely is.”

They suddenly erupted into the loudest cheers he’d ever heard in his life, with men and women hugging and kissing each other in joy and children dancing in the street. “I guess we’ll have to take that barge,” he said to Tom with a wry grin as he dismounted. “Remind me never to do anything that could cause the people to hate me that much.”

“I doubt you could, Harry.”

He wasn’t sure of that; his father hadn’t set out to be the most loathed king in English history, after all.

They arrived at Westminster mere minutes later, their barge sped along by the incoming tide. He had to find Juan again, speak with de Victoria, and then there was the Council meeting that afternoon where they’d doubtless chew over everything he’d done today and spit it back out into his lap. And on top of that he had to deal with France, Calais, Scotland, Spain, and – his most urgent problem now that Cata was safe – the political prisoners in the Tower.

His main concern on that front was Edmund de la Pole, the senior Yorkist claimant, who rejoiced in the title of Duke of Suffolk despite having been attainted two years ago. He didn’t know how the man had fared in the Tower since he’d been captured at sea last year, but he and his three brothers – well, two of them, since one was in holy orders – had long been the sharpest thorns pricking at the Tudor rose. In truth he wasn’t sure what to do with the man; he’d need the Council’s advice on that matter.

 _This is likely the easiest day of your reign,_ he thought, _and still you’re barely holding yourself together._

Brian Tuke once again greeted him at the Water Gate, his face drawn and his eyes haunted. “Where have they taken the ladies?” Henry asked him.

“Her Highness and her companions are in the Queen’s Hall in the Royal Lodgings. Your Grace, I can’t begin to express…”

But he shook his head. “I don’t think any of us can. Dr. de Victoria’s seen this before – he was with the Catholic Monarchs at Málaga and Baza, he told me last night – and even he was shocked by what he found. Is the boy still with them?”

“Yes, Your Grace, but…he said he was the brother of a Lord Henry. We have a great many Lord Henrys at court, so I’m not sure where I should house him.”

He held back a smile; leave it to a court official to worry about precedence at a moment like this. “The ‘Lord Henry’ he mentioned would be me. I have it on excellent authority that Señora de Montoya and my father were…well, I don’t think he knew he’d left a bastard son.”

Tuke’s eyes widened. “A royal bastard; God in Heaven. I’ll have rooms made up for him in the Lodgings – that is,” he added with trepidation, “if Your Grace wishes him to reside there.”

“Eventually I will, but for now let’s have him sleep near his mother. Apparently Doña Lina is a hair’s breadth from death and I’ve asked him to remain close to her – to pray, of course.”

“Naturally, sir. Master Norris has arrived and has advised me of your wish to take up residence in the Duke of Bedford’s old rooms. They’ll be ready for Your Grace momentarily. I’ve also taken the liberty of readying your late lady mother’s former rooms for the Princesses; they connect with your own.”

“And the councillors?”

“It’s my understanding that most are to arrive early this afternoon.”

“Then I’ll meet with them in the Painted Hall at four, but first I’d like to spend some time in the Great Hall. It’s not in use today?”

“No, sir.”

“Then have it cleared, please,” he said as Tuke bowed. “And one last thing; I once again thank you for putting Christian charity before good stewardship and thereby saving the Princess’s life and my brother’s. I won't forget that.”

Henry waited for Tuke to leave, tears streaming down his face, before turning to Wolsey and Tom More. “Father, please find Clement and sound him out. He risked his life this morning in their defence; I intend to knight him – unless he’d prefer to go into the Church, of course, in which case I’ll ask you to find a place for him as one of my scholars. Tom, go to the Queen’s Hall, if you will, and keep an eye on the ladies and on Juan as well. If he asks after me I’ll be with him in – I’d say about half an hour. I need to be alone…I need to think.”

Westminster Hall had long been one of his favourite places. As a child he would walk right down the middle of the cavernous space, aligning himself exactly between the two rows of carved wooden angels as if they were shining their love down on him alone. Today, though, his attention was fixed not on the roof but on the statues of kings mouldering along the north and south walls. Thirteen in total they numbered, including the man who had rebuilt the hall and who had been deposed in it as well.

Few kings were dealt a truly bad hand in life, he thought as he stopped in front of Richard II’s crumbling statue. Born into wealth and privilege, raised in luxury unimaginable to anyone not royal, they were the only men on God’s earth whose flesh was truly sacred. They could however be eliminated, and when they were the weapon of choice had long been starvation. Richard had been starved to death at Pontefract and, rumours of red hot pokers notwithstanding, Edward II had suffered the same fate at Berkeley. King John had gone as far as to starve Maud de Braose, the Lady of Bramber, for the heinous crime of not disguising her wholly warranted distrust of him. It had only been recently – only with the Usurper, now that he thought of it – that it had become possible to offer actual violence to those of royal blood outside the field of battle. Had his father starved Cata in a hypocritical attempt to distinguish himself from his predecessor, to hearken back to a time when the bodies of royals were untouchable by mere mortals even if their lives were not?

God was indeed wise, he had to admit. Had his father died a month earlier it would have happened here at Westminster and the news might have reached Cata’s guards before Henry could save her; a month later and she might not have survived. And yet…and yet wouldn’t it have been better if he’d died before any of this happened?

Perhaps not, he thought, looking up at Richard II again. That wastrel had come to the throne as a child, and although his blustering, vindictive nature had done him no favours the realm hadn’t been well served by the regency that followed his accession. If he’d only gone about regaining the power usurped by his greedy lords in a more sensible manner…but that was a fool’s dream; no man as in love with himself as Richard of Bordeaux would have accepted that he was wrong, and Henry didn’t know of a better way to guarantee failure than to deny its possibility.

What kind of failure would he himself prove to be? That was posterity’s decision, he supposed. Look at Edward III; how could he have known that the future would condemn him for siring too many legitimate sons? Henry only hoped he’d be judged less harshly than his father.

Of course he’d never put much faith in hope.

The silence was broken by the faint squeak of the side door. “How is Clement?” he asked Wolsey as the priest approached him.

He rose from his bow. “Master Belasis is not gravely injured, Your Grace, but he did lose quite a bit of blood. Dr. Linacre recommends he be left to rest for at least two days.” He paused. “Sir, about the child.”

Not Wolsey too. “You mean Juan?”

“Yes, sir; I wonder if Your Grace has considered how very useful a bastard brother might prove in the fullness of time.”

 _Useful?_  “Tom More and Bishop Fisher both warned me against him; they said a bastard could make a play for the throne.”

“Certainly that has happened,” he allowed, “especially in those realms whose civil laws are derived from the Roman code. But I must point out that no bastard since the Conqueror has ever made a serious claim to the throne of England. On the contrary, there have been numerous instances of royal bastards supporting their legitimate brothers and sisters, even holding their thrones for them in a minority or going to war in their stead. Naturally one must approach the matter with an element of caution—”

“Naturally.”

“—but if raised properly, with a sense of honour and respect for authority, the boy might very well become Your Grace’s most loyal lord.”

He was going to thank Wolsey for his advice but other words, unbidden but true all the same, spilled out. “I feel so horribly guilty,” he confessed. “I would have given my life to protect Cata from what she’s gone through, but the boy…I’ve known him for, what, an hour at most? And I already love him. I already rejoice that he lives.”

“I’m not surprised, sir; he is your brother. You mentioned he reminded you of the Duke of Somerset?”

“Edmund, yes. I, um…” but no; he didn’t want to think of that awful day again. “I should check on him and the ladies. Speaking of threats to the throne, do you know if de la Pole is still in the Tower, or has he been moved?”

His face reddened. “I regret to report that your father had Master de la Pole secretly executed last week.”

And for that he could only thank God – but another possibility entered his mind. “Was he the only one? Aunt Catherine’s husband…”

But the priest was already shaking his head. “It was your father’s intent, as I understand it, to have Sir William beheaded tomorrow, but by the time the warrant was made ready he was unable to sign it.”

He heaved a sigh of relief; Will Courtenay’s only ‘crime’, if you could call it that, had been to speak up against the pricking of Morton’s Fork. “Five years for telling the truth. I have to wonder how many of my father’s friends rued the day they helped him bring down the Usurper.”

“Sir, I hardly think…” but he demurred with a bow of his head. “Does Your Grace wish me to prepare a general pardon?”

“Yes, thank you, for everyone but the de la Poles. I’d also like to bring my aunts back to court, if they’ll come. They’re Princesses of England, Father; their blood is just as royal as mine and my sisters’, and I will not see royal blood disrespected.”

Wolsey’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment’s thought he nodded. “A wise precaution under the circumstances.”

His guards surrounded them the moment they stepped into the courtyard. “I’m to the Queen’s Hall, John,” he told the lead guard. “Father, I’ll bid you farewell for now; please attend on me at three in the King’s private chapel. I’ll make confession and hear Mass before the meeting of the Accession Council.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Westminster Palace was a rabbit’s warren of corridors at the best of times but the area south of St. Stephen’s was the worst of all, with short staircases leading down, up, and down again for no apparent reason. He supposed he could rebuild in parts, but he had to wonder how much of the current mess had been caused by other kings doing the same thing. The Great Hall he’d never touch, but the rest of it…of course it was hardly his first priority. Calais would have to come first, then Dover, and he’d surely need to soothe the dean and chapter of Durham Cathedral by pulling down their crumbling palace and rebuilding it if to completely different blueprints. He’d never force Cata (or himself for that matter) to pass by anything resembling that house of horrors again.

“Wait out here, please,” he told John at the doors to the Queen’s Hall. “The ladies are in significant distress; I’d rather they not be subjected to the sight of armed men at the moment.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I advise Master Tuke of your return?”

“Yes, and ask him to have a tray for two sent up as well. Tell him it’s for me – and my brother.” And with a smile he disappeared into the hall.

 


End file.
